Sundown on Top of the World: A Hunter Rayne Highway Mystery (35 page)

Hunter sipped at his coffee while he thought about how to answer his landlord’s question. El had relented and found him half a load at least from Prince George back to Vancouver, but with the truck repairs, the down time and the empty miles, overall he’d lost money on the trip north. He tried to picture himself doing something else. Local deliveries, like Sorry, so he’d be home every night. An office job, sitting behind a desk. Something in retail, or even getting into corporate security or insurance investigations. Wearing a suit and tie.

“No,” he said, drawing out the word. “I still like what I do.” Being home alone every night wasn’t something he was ready for. Somehow it was more therapeutic being alone on the road. He relished the hours of solitude, the change of scenery, the feel of hundreds of horsepower under his control, the loose camaraderie with other drivers.

“You’re a highway cowboy.”

“Highway cowboy.” Hunter nodded, a smile playing across his face. “Good one, Gord.”

The next day Hunter parked his Pontiac sedan against the fence at the Watson Transportation yard, pulled his duffle bag out of the back seat and transferred it to the cab of his Freightliner. He planned to give the Blue Knight a quick wash and close inspection before he was scheduled to hook up a loaded trailer of hot tubs to haul across the border. As he started a preliminary walk around the tractor, a five ton truck barreled into the yard, sounding its horn. It made him jump, and he turned around to glare at the driver.

“You’re back,” bellowed Sorry from the cab of the truck. “Want to go get some lunch?”

Five minutes later they were seated at a window table in Edna’s Kitchen as Susan, one half of the Chinese couple who owned and operated the restaurant, was memorizing their orders. A burger and fries for Sorry, a Denver sandwich with fries for Hunter. Edna’s coffee left something to be desired, so they both ordered Cokes.

Susan turned away and yelled something unintelligible to her husband Walter, then she turned back and pointed at Sorry with a finger. “You have dessert. Apple pie? Sticky bun? Jello? What?” Before he could answer, she turned to Hunter and repeated her questions, adding, “How ‘bout you like nice lychee ice cream on hot day like today?”

Feeling under pressure, they both ordered the apple pie and Susan bustled off to another table, her Reeboks squeaking on the tile floor.

“So how are things between you and Simone?” asked Hunter, straightening the cutlery in front of him. “Has she forgiven you?”

With an exaggerated nod, Sorry said, “Coming along. New York wasn’t built in a day, you know what I mean? I have to bite my tongue a lot in this new job, though, but it’s getting easier every day.” He leaned forward and lowered his voice. “I’ve learned to lie like a carpet. The payoff is Mo finally let me back in our bedroom on Friday.” This was followed by one of his big laughs, causing customers at several other tables to turn around and stare. He leaned back and stroked his moustache, looking smug.

“I heard from Bart that Orville’s stepson turned himself in. Thanks for that,” said Hunter.

Susan rushed up to the table, deposited their two sodas, and moved on. Hunter’s napkin fluttered to the floor in her wake. Sorry called to her retreating back, “Hey! Where’s my straw?”

“You a grown man. You don’t need straw,” she shouted back without turning around.

“Yeah, I did like you said. I told him Legal Joe was cool, and that the two of them spoke the same language, you know what I mean? He wasn’t sure, said he hates lawyers, but then he called me later to say thanks. Legal Joe told him he could get him off with a light sentence in medium security. Self defense, did he tell you that?”

Hunter was just about to take a sip of Coke but he shook his head.

“Jimmy Moses said he waited for this Collins guy to come out after he closed up the place, and they got into an argument. The prick owed him and Orville a pile of cash, and Moses wanted him to pay it back. Collins tells him no way and fuck off, so Jimmy loses it and takes a swing at him. Collins holds him off and roars like a bear, then reaches inside his truck. Moses sees him feeling around for a rifle, so he pulls his hunting knife off his belt and sticks the fucker with it. Wouldn’t have done it if it weren’t for the gun, he said. Sounds like a righteous move to me.”

Susan plunked down their lunch plates and raced away.

The man at the table behind Sorry had evidently been listening in on the Jimmy Moses story and shot Sorry an appalled sideways glance as he passed their table on his way to the exit.

“So I guess you won’t be free to ride with me for quite a while,” said Hunter as they left Edna’s. “Sounds like this job of yours is going to be more or less permanent.”

“Yeah,” said Sorry, scratching his belly. “More or less permanent. As long as Mo is happy.” He frowned in concentration and ran a finger back and forth under his nose. “Until something better comes along, anyway.”

Hunter stood watching Sorry as he started up the delivery truck, rolled down the window and lit up a cigarette. Blowing smoke out of his nostrils, Sorry raised a hand in goodbye and drove away.

– – – – – TWENTY-ONE

It was the end of August when Hunter got a call on his cell phone from Mark, the young man he’d met in Eagle at Yukon Sally’s lodge. Mark said he would be arriving in Vancouver in a couple of days on his way home from Alaska and was wondering if Hunter knew of a cheap place to stay. Hunter told him he was in luck if he wanted to crash on his couch. “I’m usually on the road, but I’ve got a couple of days off this week, if you don’t mind a detour to North Vancouver.”

It had been a hot day, and Hunter was relaxing in the evening sun on his small patio, reading a Tom Clancy novel between sips out of a can of Labatt’s Blue and the occasional bite of a pepperoni stick. He heard footsteps above him and then his landlord’s voice over the railing. “Are you there, Hunter? You’ve got guests. I’ll send them round back.”

Guests? Guests were a rarity. Even his daughters usually met him at a restaurant somewhere, and he’d just had dinner with the girls the day before.

Seconds later, the sight of a dark-haired young woman rounding the corner of the house made him catch his breath. It was Goldie. She rushed up to him and gave him a hug. “I don’t know how I can ever thank you for everything you’ve done for us,” she said.

Mark appeared behind her, just nodding his hello.

“Glad I could help, but I’ve only got one couch.”

Goldie’s blush was immediate.

“We’ll manage,” said Mark. “I’ve got a foamy and a sleeping bag.”

Hunter smiled at the way the young man had come to her rescue. He was obviously a good kid. He proved it once again when he saw Gord struggling down the stairs with a folded lawn chair in each hand and hurried up to help him.

“Thought you could use these,” said the old man, and declined Hunter’s invitation to join them. “Got to get back to my show. I’m watching a biography of Patsy Cline,” he said and disappeared back up the stairs.

Moments later the three of them were seated on the patch of lawn beyond Hunter’s patio, Hunter and Mark enjoying their beer, Goldie waiting for the kettle to boil for tea. The sun was low in the sky, spreading a wash of deep yellow over the trees and grass in front of them and casting the shadows of the big cedars almost as far as their chairs. Hunter asked them what they’d been up to and where they were going.

Goldie’s excitement was almost palpable. “Mark is on his way home to Santa Barbara, and he’s going to drop me off at my mother’s place on the way through Oregon. I’m hoping I can get into college, if I can find a part-time job.” Her broad smile was replaced by a look of surprise. “What a lovely cat! It’s a Siamese. Look beside you, Mark.”

“Don’t –.” Hunter’s warning came too late. Mark snatched his hand back as if he’d been bitten, and he had.

“Did it break the skin?”

Mark examined his hand and told them that he’d survive.

Hunter asked the question he’d been wanting to ask since they’d arrived. “How’s Betty?”

Goldie half shrugged. “She wasn’t real happy to see me go, but she understands. I told her I’d be back to see her next summer, or maybe even send her a ticket to come visit me wherever I end up.” She stole a quick glance at Mark, who couldn’t hide a smile. “I have trouble imagining her in a city, so I’m not too hopeful. Oh, there’s the kettle.” She got up to go make her tea.

The next morning Hunter made them a big breakfast of bacon and eggs and toast, then he followed them to the driveway in front of the house to see them off. The Jeep was covered in road dust, so Mark used Gord’s garden hose and an old towel to give it a quick cleaning as they said their goodbyes. Goldie gave Hunter another quick hug and made him promise to stop in next time he drove through Oregon.

“Salem’s right on the I-5, you know.” She rolled her eyes at her own stupidity. “Of course you know. You drive through it often enough.”

Hunter watched the Jeep head up the driveway and turn toward the highway, then headed back to join Gord and the cat on the sundeck for another coffee. They spoke of being young and getting old and never knowing where life would lead them next and making the very best of every day, whatever that meant.

“Wish you were young again?” Hunter asked. In spite of a sense that something was missing in his life, that constant vague yearning for something – or someone – to fulfill him, right at this moment he had a feeling of contentment, of being right where he was supposed to be.

The old man shook his head. “Being young was too much work. Look at me now.” He gestured wide, taking in the sundeck, the garden, the view of the inlet and across to the skyline of Vancouver beyond, even including Hunter and the cat. He wiggled his bare toes, leaned back with a satisfied sigh, and picked up his mug of fresh coffee.

Hunter smiled, kicked off his moccasins, and did the same.

– – – – – TWENTY-TWO

It was the first snow of the season. Betty Salmon had just tromped through it to the outhouse and back, missing the presence of Hootie at her heels. He always used to be there to keep her company on the path to the outhouse in the morning. She closed the cabin door against the icy flurries and opened the woodstove, stirred the ashes to expose the glowing orange coals, and loaded half a dozen fresh splits. The water on the stove was hot enough to make tea, so she did, letting it steep until it was good and strong.

She sat in her chair facing the woodstove, her hands wrapped around the hot stoneware mug. The heat eased the ache in her fingers that the cold weather always seemed to bring. She thought about Goldie, wondering where the child was now, and what she was doing, and if she was happy. She worried aloud whether there would be a letter from her at the post office this week. She had promised to send pictures of California.

“Whether there is or not, we’ll give her a call from town on Sunday morning.” The voice came from behind her.

Betty felt the cold draft from the open cabin door as Orville and Hootie entered, the old man stomping the snow off his boots before prying them off his feet. Hootie, tail wagging and tongue lolling happily to one side, came to greet her. “Fire’s stoked and the tea’s ready,” she said over her shoulder. “Get anything?”

“We got a nice fat rabbit,” he said, standing next to her and giving her a quick hug and kiss before she had time to push him away. “Didn’t we, Hootie?”

Hootie’s tail wagged in response.

“You little traitor,” said Betty, stroking the Malamute’s broad forehead. Then to Orville, “I still can’t believe how he’s taken to you.”

“He’s only taken to me because you have, too,” he said with a wink. “Haven’t you, my little ptarmigan?”

“Go on with you. Drink your tea.” Betty scowled at him, but inside she was smiling.

She had no doubt that Orville knew it, too.

THE END

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I’ve been to the Yukon and Alaska several times over the years, but by no means knew the area well enough to have written
Sundown on Top of the World
without a great deal of research. Among the books I found invaluable for getting to know the land and its people better are
Coming Into the Country
by John McPhee,
Raising Ourselves
and
Two Old Women
by Velma Wallis,
Law of the Yukon
by Helene Dobrowolsky,
The Colourful Five Percent
edited by Jim Robb, and
Another Lost Whole Moose Catalogue
from Lost Moose Publishing.

I also owe my appreciation to
wilderness dweller Chris Czajkowksi
, who is living proof that a woman can survive and thrive alone in the Canadian wilderness. I first got to know her in 2013 through her
Diary of a Wilderness Dweller
, and since then she and I have exchanged and enjoyed each other’s very different books.

I’ve lost touch with my old friend, Doug Beaumont, but he’s the one who first introduced me to the Yukon and Alaska in about 1979. I have fond memories of cruising down the highway to Haines Junction in his tow truck, chewing on a pepperoni stick and sipping on a cold beer, which wasn’t illegal in the Yukon in those days, or so he told me.

I apologize to the residents of Eagle and Chicken, Alaska for reinventing their towns to some extent to suit my story. I hope I haven’t offended anyone, and that you will forgive my errors. I have the greatest respect and admiration for those who choose to live in the northern bush.

Thanks as always to a man who is fast becoming one of the “colorful five percent” here in the South Cariboo region of British Columbia, my partner the
French Canadian cowboy Gilbert Roy
. And last but by no means least, a heartfelt thank you to the readers who make all those hours I spend sitting at my keyboard worthwhile. I love to hear from you and I hope you continue to enjoy the series.