“Yeah, there’s a lot of questions,” Kathy agrees. “Maybe just ask Carl and Tina? I don’t know why you haven’t told Carl, at least, that we saw him in Dark River. You’re in Big Al’s every day.”
“Not every day. It’s not like it used to be. Hardly know anyone there anymore. And anyway, Carl hasn’t been around much since he made Marge the manager.” The car ahead of them turns out into the street, but Rick has to wait for traffic to clear. “Great,” he mutters. “Now we’re stuck in rush hour traffic. Another thing to thank Big Balls for.”
“You could ask Tina, then,” Kathy suggests.
“You know how that would go!” There’s a break in traffic, so Rick eases the truck out into the flow.
“Well anyway, I need to talk to Penny and Reese. Too bad Reese moved out to Vancouver instead of Penny moving back here. It would be nice to have a lawyer we could trust to run things at this end. Plus it would be nice to have my friend closer. Reese still knows a lot of lawyers in Regina. She might be able to suggest someone. Robertson mentioned something about a time limit, the time for claiming running out soon? We might have to do some legal thing to make sure my claim doesn’t just expire.”
“Yeah, good point. And meantime, Mr. Big Balls thinks we have no way of proving your entitlement, and we’ll just let him think that for the time being.”
“But we don’t, do we? Unless you’ve thought of something? You heard what he said about DNA. I don’t see how we could ever locate the other, er, my siblings. They’re probably like me, different names altogether, no adoption records, don’t even know who their real father is. So that leaves us with Hank Senior and Junior. How would we get their DNA?”
“Not sure. Maybe Astrid still has something that belonged to them that might have DNA on it. What happened to their stuff outta the house? Maybe still around somewhere?”
“Maybe. Hank Senior’s wife is still alive so it’s possible Astrid stored it for when she gets out of the looney bin. Although she thinks she never will.”
“It’s a long shot. If they weren’t cremated, we might be able to have them exhumed, but from what Denver says, there wasn’t enough left to bury. Maybe some body parts? Another long shot, and a ghoulish thought at that, and something we might never be able to make happen,” Rick agrees. “Do we have to go to your office to pick up your car? I don’t mind taking you to work in the morning. Have to go to the bank tomorrow anyway since it’s too late today.”
“My car’s okay in the lot overnight,” Kathy says. “What time are you leaving tomorrow?”
“Six-thirty? Seven?”
“That’s too early. Tomorrow’s Friday and I’m on the late shift, so I don’t have to go in until ten. I don’t mind going in a little early but I’d rather not be there at seven. You don’t want to be at the bank before it opens, surely?”
“No, I gotta swing by John Deere to pick up a part, and they’re open early.”
“We could go to there now.”
“Naw, I gotta go to the bank tomorrow anyway.”
“It would be a lot more convenient if the farm accounts were at the bank in Pillerton.”
“Sure it would, but they were impossible to deal with when Pops and I wanted that big farm loan. I’m still pissed about that. I won’t deal there.”
“That was decades ago!”
“I have a long memory.”
“That’s called biting off your nose to spite your face. They’ve been good to deal with for the insurance agency’s accounts.”
Rick shrugs. “Like I said, I got other things to do in town anyhow.”
“But you wouldn’t have if we went to the dealer now.”
At the look he gives her, she throws up her hands and says, “I know what you’re going to say. You have to go to the bank anyway. I give up! But that’s too early for me to go to the office. So I’ll need my car.”
“Well, that means adding twenty minutes to our trip home.”
“That’s not much. Do you really have to go so early?”
“I do if I want to get back early. Don’t want Ryan with his face hanging out waitin’ for that part. Maybe him or Sarah could swing by and pick you up.”
“I’ll ask.” She gets her phone out of her purse and sends a text, checks it for email, then puts it away and looks at Rick.
They listen to the five o’clock news for a few minutes, then Kathy says, “I was just thinking about some of the stuff Astrid and I talked about. She said she liked Hank’s wife. Maybe she could get her to agree to exhume one of them.”
“If they weren’t cremated, and if the powers that be would accept an order or whatever is required from someone who’s in the looney bin.”
They ride along in silence for a couple of blocks. Then Kathy says, “I don’t know why I didn’t photocopy those letters!”
“I don’t either, but don’t beat yourself up over it. I doubt Mr. Big Balls would believe you are the little girl he mentioned anyway.”
“Courts might, though.”
“Yeah, but how would you prove the letters were from Hazen? They’re gone, and there’s no use worryin’ about it. Robertson’s going to make a battle out of it no matter what. Just like before. You’d think it was his money.”
“Maybe he gets a share of whatever isn’t claimed.” Kathy roots through her purse and comes out with a pack of gum. She pops a stick in her mouth. “Want one?”
“No thanks.”
“You know, sweetie, if it’s going to be as big a hassle as last time, I wonder if it’s even worth pursuing. It seems like it’s going to be an awful lot of trouble.”
“We don’t know what’s at stake, thanks to that pompous stuffed shirt not telling us, but from what Astrid says, it was a big estate. He wouldn’t name you in the will just to give you a couple hundred bucks. Plus, I won’t drop out and give Big Balls the win.” He pilots the truck onto the onramp for Highway 19 and once merged, gives her a sideways look, then grins.
“What?”
“There’s one other sibling, remember?”
“Of course. But I couldn’t find that person before so where would I start looking now? Everyone’s dead.”
“Maybe not everyone. The Lodge has been rebuilt. Who would rebuild? The person who inherited it, right?”
“Well, that’s who would be entitled to the insurance money. But maybe the land was sold and the insurance money went into the estate.”
“Maybe. But if ol’ Hank had other kids, don’t you think he’d leave it to one of them?”
“Yes! You’re right! But there’s no chance Robertson will tell us who.”
“Nope. No chance.” He reaches over and takes her hand. “We might eventually have to make another trip to Dark River, but for now, why don’t we get Penny to find out who the new owner is?”
“No flies on you, husband!”
“Meanwhile, I’m starvin’. Wanna stop at the Holiday Inn for that mushroom tortellini you like so much?”
“Yes, let’s.”
Twenty-four
Bronco
A DOZEN KILOMETERS north of Pillerton, Rick turns off the highway onto the gravel road leading to their farm. He says, “Wonder if Mutti baked a cake today.”
“I can’t believe you’re thinking of cake after that big meal.”
“Wouldn’t have to be a big piece of cake.”
“I don’t know why you aren’t fat,” Kathy says. Then she frowns as she looks down the road. “What’s that?”
Acres of crops awaiting harvest stretch as far as the eye can see, waving in the breeze on both sides of the road. Aside from the scrub aspens that grow around the slough just past their farm, the only trees in sight are those the Schoenfeld family has planted over the decades: Colorado Blue Spruce and tall narrow Lombardy Poplars in the grove surrounding the old house, smaller versions around the new house at the back. Just before the Schoenfeld driveway, a vehicle with its hood up is stopped, half blocking the road.
“Car trouble,” Rick says, slowing t
o a stop beside the Bondo-mottled Bronco. A bearded man wearing a ballcap and a grubby camo jacket is on the far side, bent over the fender as if tinkering with the engine. He looks up for a second, then tugs the bill of his cap to settle it further down his forehead, and without looking up again, waves them off.
Kathy powers her window down and calls out, “need help?”
“No,” the man calls out. He slams the hood down, then scurries around the back to the driver’s door, opens it, and climbs in. The engine coughs to life.
“Must be okay,” Rick decides. He accelerates slowly away, then pulls into the driveway and stops. “I’ll just wait and make sure he can roll.”
They watch as the Bronco spews small stones and dust from its tires when the driver negotiates a U-turn and speeds back toward the highway.
“That’s odd,” Rick says with a frown. “I expected him to keep goin’ in the direction he was parked. Although I dunno what he’d want to go further down this road for.”
“Not what you’d call a friendly guy, pretty rude when someone’s just asking if he needs help. A ‘no thank you’ wouldn’t hurt. You know, something about him looked familiar.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Hmmm. Can’t place him, though. Maybe it’s just that he reminded me of the weird guy who came into the office this morning. But he was bald. Of course with the ballcap and sunglasses… Anyway, neither of them look like they’re from around here. Godzilla has new tenants in one of her rentals. Maybe that’s one of them.”
“With Regina growing out our way, our town is changin’. I go into Al’s, half the time I don’t know anyone.” He shifts into drive and continues up to the house. “And anyway, what do guys from around here look like?”
“Well, clean shaven and not wearing jeans two sizes too big that leave you wondering if there’s even an ass in there.”
“Tell you what. When we get home, you can check to make sure my jeans have an ass in ‘em.”
“Your jeans fit fine.”
“But a person can’t be too sure. You should check.”
“I’ll take your word for it.”
“No, I insist. And I’ll check yours while we’re at it.”
“Oh, well, I wouldn’t want you to go to any trouble.”
“No trouble. It’s the least I can do.”
♦ ♦ ♦
AT FIVE-THIRTY the next morning, Trent’s cellphone alarm blasts. He’s been tossing and turning for at least an hour so he didn’t really need the alarm, but he’s been called a fuck-up often enough that this morning going smoothly is really important. He had set it just to be sure he didn’t sleep in.
His erection is pushing the sheets up. No use trying to piss like this, he thinks, and grabs it. Once he’s squirted his jism he heads for the bathroom. He doesn’t shower or brush his teeth, just takes a whiz, throws his clothes on and heads for the door.
He opens the door a few inches and seeing no one, carefully sticks his head out for a better look around. There’s a van parked at the office. A guy gets a bundle of what looks like newspapers out of the side door and he takes them inside.
Trent waits until he returns empty-handed, gets back in the van and drives off. He’s planned everything carefully. It wouldn’t be good if someone saw him taking off so early. If things go bad and he needs an alibi, he wants to say he was here in bed because he likes to sleep in.
Things can’t go bad, though, not with all the thought he’s put into it. Des always says, you gotta plan for all the contingencies. His target coming home with a dude yesterday was definitely what Des would call a contingency.
First she’s late, makes him wait out in the hot sun nearly two hours, then she shows up with a dude. Definitely a contingency. He hadn’t planned for it. Who could? It’s okay, though, because he figured out what to do and it’ll all be fixed this morning.
He swings into the drive-through at Tim Hortons. There’s a double line-up and cars backed out into the shopping center parking lot besides. It’s frustratingly slow. Why the fuck are so many people up this early? Good thing he gave himself plenty of time. Planned for a contingency. He’s finally at the window, picks up his coffee and a box of double chocolate donuts, then heads out to Highway 19 southbound holding the cup between his knees.
The first sip of coffee is too hot and burns his mouth. He curses. Maybe he should sue them for having their coffee too hot. He heard about some bitch getting millions from McDonalds that way.
At the first stop light, he pulls the liter of rye out from under his seat, takes the lid off the cup, and pours a little rye in. Not much, though, because it’s still too full. And too hot. Maybe he should dump some out the window so he can add enough rye to make it cool enough to drink. But he doesn’t want to drink it all right away anyhow, because he might have a bit of a wait.
The only downside to his vehicle is that it’s too old to have cup holders. He puts the coffee back between his thighs, careful not to squeeze. Each time he has to clutch and shift gears, he picks up the cup with thumb and forefinger of his left hand and steers with the other three fingers while he works the shifter with his right hand. The Bronco is constantly pulling to the right, so he needs a better grip on the wheel. It’s impossible not to keep the coffee from sloshing out the hole in the lid.
After a few blocks, he’s sipped enough out that it won’t splash over, and sets it on the box of donuts in the passenger seat. No stupid asshat better cut him off and make him brake hard! He’d regret it if he did! But then, he can’t take the time to tune anyone up so there’s no use thinking about it.
Once he’s out on the highway at cruising speed, there’s no problem. It comes to him there are cup holders you can stick on the dash, and gives himself a pat on the back for thinking of it. There’s a Canadian Tire near the motel. He’ll stop in there on his way home later and get one.
It’s a forty-five minute drive from the motel to Pillerton if he stays right on the speed limit. Not for the first time, he’s tempted to see what the big V-8 can do, what with this inviting, wide-open stretch of road in front of him. But he knows the cops cruise the highway often, plus there’s a grove of trees around a farmhouse where he’s seen the sneaky bastard cops hiding with their radar guns, so he’s careful.
It sucks, though! Forty-five minutes on this flat, straight road through the endless featureless fields of some kind of crops, and he has to keep the needle at ninety! The sunrise is spectacular as only a prairie sunrise can be, but he barely notices. If he didn’t have coffee, he’d likely fall asleep.
At last he reaches the turn-off to the gravel road leading to her house. He was waiting for her yesterday, but then the contingency happened. She came along in a truck instead of her hatchback, and of course, had a dude with her. He wouldn’t have realized it was her in the truck because he was waiting for her car, but they stopped and she looked right at him. Mr. I’m So Fuckin’ Smart Briggs never told him she was hooked up, and at no time when he was watching her did he see her with a dude. No matter, he’ll get the blame for it anyway. Like he’s a mind reader and should know about it even though he’s never seen her with a dude before? It was totally not his fault. Anyway, he can still get the job done this morning, show up to collect his $9.5K at the appointed time and not have to explain yesterday’s contingency.
He turns onto the sideroad slowly so as not to tip the coffee, and mutters, “God, please don’t let her leave with that dude!” As he approaches the farmhouse, he slows to make sure he’s not raising too much dust in case someone is watching; then he realizes he’s going to go past their place so they wouldn’t think anything of it anyway, just a vehicle driving by on the road. No cops on this road!
He boots the accelerator. The big engine emits a satisfying roar and the Bronco he’s affectionately named The Beast fishtails in the loose gravel. For a tense moment he thinks he won’t be able to get it under control; it slews in the gravel at the edge of the ditch, then grabs and shoots back onto the roadway. It’s enough
of a surprise that he eases back on the throttle. Of course the coffee tipped.
“Fuck! Fuck! Fuck fuck fuck!” He flicks the empty cup off the donut box onto the floor. If he had only thought about the need for a cup holder sooner! Can’t blame The Beast for not having one.
Sure, the Beast needs work and it’s a gas guzzler, but it’s a classic: no plastic body parts on this beauty! Big chromed steel bumper. Powerful V-8 engine. He can fix it up and it’ll be worth bags full of money. Surprising how old Broncos cost more than some much-newer cars. He pulled one over on those bikers, for sure, getting this off them for half what it’s worth. No use having a vehicle that’s pristine just to ding it up in case he can’t just scare her off the road and has to crash into her, and no way she will be able to outrun him in her little four-banger.
When he’s past the driveway to the farmhouse and just over the slight rise, he negotiates a U-turn and pulls the Beast into the ditch facing back the way he came, tucking it in behind some bushes. A beautiful thing about Saskatchewan is the wide, shallow ditches, not like the trenches on Vancouver Island. The going is a little rough but the Beast farts at terrain far worse than this.
He takes his bottle of rye, what’s left of his donuts, and the binoculars and walks to the top of the rise. The big trees are on three sides of the farmhouse, none in front, as if they never wanted to block the view. A view of nothing but empty fields. Saskatchewan people must be idiots! It does mean he has full view of it but people in the farmhouse can see him, too, so he huddles in the tall grass at the edge of the road.
Satisfied he can’t be seen, he gets another donut out of the box, and waits. If any cars come along, he’ll just stand up and pretend to be taking a piss. Doesn’t seem like that’s going to happen, though. Times he’s been on this road, there’s never been any traffic. Why? Maybe this road doesn’t go anywhere? If it doesn’t, people might wonder what he’s doing there.
The Bear Mountain Secret Page 23
