FIRE
FIGHT
Jacqueline Guest
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Guest, Jacqueline.
Fire fight / Jacqueline Guest.
pages cm
ISBN 978-1-939053-11-4 (pbk.) -- ISBN 978-1-939053-98-5 (e-book)
1. Navajo Indians--Alberta--Fiction. 2. Assiniboine Indians--Alberta--Fiction. [1. Navajo Indians--Fiction. 2. Assiniboine Indians--Fiction. 3. Indians of North America--Alberta. 4. Runaways--Fiction. 5. Identity--Fiction. 6. Alberta--Fiction. 7. Canada--Fiction.] I. Title.
PZ7.G938175Fi 2015
[Fic]--dc23
2015007693
©2015 Jacqueline Guest
Cover and interior design: Jim Scattaregia
All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced by any means whatsoever, except for brief quotations in reviews, without written permission from the publisher.
7th Generation
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ISBN: 978-1-939053-11-4
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Contents
ONE:
Run!
TWO:
Duck and Cover
THREE:
Superhero in Coveralls
FOUR:
Invite to the Prom
FIVE:
Party Time
SIX:
Downs and Ups
SEVEN:
A Different Kind of Hot
EIGHT:
Good Party
NINE:
Bad Party
TEN:
Inside Job
ELEVEN:
Tragedy and Betrayal
TWELVE:
Busted!
THIRTEEN:
The Man behind the Mask
FOURTEEN:
Fire Fight
FIFTEEN:
Into the Black
SIXTEEN:
Home and Dry
Resources
About the Author
CHAPTER ONE
Run!
I stared down into the still face of death, hardly recognizing the lifeless shell lying in the coffin. This was the worst day of my entire sixteen years on this planet.
My ikusin, my grandmother, was the most important person in my life, and now she was gone. I was alone, which meant Stoney Nakoda Social Services would come calling . . . again. They knew me as a “born troublemaker”—their words, not mine—and would toss me into foster care until I was an adult of eighteen. Right. As if you could put a number on that.
Or worse. They’d send me to the States to live with my Navajo relatives, whom I’ve never met! The only thing Navajo about me is my first name, Kai. It means “willow tree,” and my parents chose it because of the willows around our house, where I was born.
The name Kai Hunter is a mash-up, like me—part Navajo, part Stoney Nakoda. My parents met on the powwow trail, married, and stayed here on the Stoney Reserve near Calgary, Alberta. We were a happy, normal family. All of that came to a fiery end one rainy night when a drunk driver ran my parents’ car off the road. They both died, and I moved in with my grandmother. And now . . .
I touched Gran’s cold hand, still trying to wrap my head around her really being dead. “Thanks for taking such good care of her, Mr. One Spot.” I smiled weakly at the undertaker.
“Be back at eleven for the service, Kai. Mrs. Wesley’s arranged a full ceremony, complete with a smudge and an honor song, and there’s going to be a mighty fine round dance. The elders say the spirit of your ikusin will be at the dance.”
I nodded mutely, knowing this was my final good-bye. Gran’s send-off sounded amazing. Wish I could be there.
At home, I stuffed my few belongings into a backpack and strapped it to my ancient ’74 ME-125 Indian motorcycle. I already had my most important possession—my mother’s locket. Gran had received it from her mother on her wedding day and given it to my mum when she married dad. I got it this year on my birthday because Gran said she wasn’t going to be here for my wedding day. I’ll always wonder how she’d known.
A dust cloud far down the road caught my attention. Shading my eyes from the hot August sun, I tried to make out who was coming. With a jolt, I recognized the cars—it was the tribal police, and right behind them, social services. Man, they weren’t wasting any time.
I yanked on my helmet and goggles. My old bike was a moody hag and often chose the worst time to show me she was boss, like now. I kicked and kicked, but the stubborn thing wouldn’t start.
I could see the cars getting closer. “Come on. If you start, I’ll buy you a fresh can of oil. You know, the good kind you like.”
The cars turned onto my road. They’d be here in less than a minute.
With a chain smoker’s cough, the engine finally turned over and grudgingly caught. “Thanks, you old pirate queen!” Tires spinning, I headed off-road, into the hills.
Cutting through the bush, I tried to figure out what to do. So far, my master plan consisted of staying out of the authorities’ gunsights. Beyond that, I had nothing.
When I came to the Trans-Canada Highway, it was decision time: east or west? East would take me to Calgary, a city large enough that I could easily hide out in the concrete jungle. Going west, I’d eventually end up in Vancouver, an even bigger city. It had so many runaways, what was one more? The problem was, I’d be a target for every pimp, drug dealer, or low life, who’d spot a teen on the run in a heartbeat.
There was another option.
Banff, Alberta, high in the Rocky Mountains, was only forty-five minutes west. It was a friendly little town filled with tourists and other people just passing through. I could disappear into the crowd until I came up with a plan. No one would expect me to be hiding in plain sight so close to home.
With one last glance over my shoulder, I turned west.
CHAPTER TWO
Duck and Cover
The first thing I did in Banff was find a drugstore. Next, I went to a service station and asked to use the washroom. The pimply-faced gas jockey gave me a hard time and wouldn’t give me the key. What a jerk.
My small pool of patience instantly drained away. I gave him a laser glare that said I wasn’t screwing around, and if he wanted to come out of this breathing, he wouldn’t mess with me. The gutless wonder shrank down to the size of the toad he was and handed over the key. In my book, he went from a jerk to a wimp.
Staring at the mirror, I wondered where to start. If I wanted to pass as an ordinary citizen and not a girl running for her life, changes had to be made.
The overall picture was okay: one hundred and ten pounds, five foot four, athletic build, and wide-set eyes that could size you up in a heartbeat. Nature had done okay; it was my additions that made me so distinctive. They’d been cool, but now they were a liability.
The piercings had to go. I took off all but a single pair of my earrings, and I had four holes in each ear. That
left two rings in my eyebrow and a cute little nose stud I’d picked up at this year’s Tsuu T’ina powwow. I removed them all.
Next, my wrist tattoo. That was a problem. A tat is a lot easier to get than it is to get rid of. The bandage I’d bought would cover the beautiful dragonfly for now. Later I could buy an awesome cuff or wide bracelet to hide it.
The last thing was the toughest. I inherited my best feature, my Navajo hair, from my mother. Thick, black, and glossy; it reached to my waist. As I raised the scissors, I turned away from the mirror. I couldn’t watch.
When it was done, I felt terrible, as if I wasn’t a Stoney Nakoda girl anymore. Carefully, I tucked my long, severed braid into my backpack.
Finally, the tricky part. I picked up the box of hair lightener and read the instructions. The lady at the drugstore said it would change my hair to blond and cover all my grays. Who could ask for anything more?
When I finished, I gawked in horror at the reflection in the mirror. Instead of “warm tawny gold” as promised, the girl looking back had “rusted-out orange” hair, perfect for Halloween. Great! I was trying to blend in, and now I stuck out like a stoplight.
Someone hammering on the door signaled that my time was up. Cursing, I grabbed my backpack and left.
According to a travel brochure I picked up, Banff was a “gem cradled in the embrace of the Rockies, famous for its hot springs and mountain views.” There sure were plenty of tourists from all over the world. The place was jammed. I saw lots of twenty-somethings in shorts and hiking boots, their packs loaded for roughing it.
This gave me an idea. Turning my bike onto Wolf Street, I kept going, first to Tunnel Mountain, then to Hidden Ridge Way. There it was: The Banff Mountain Hostel, a haven for weary, young travelers with little money.
A slim, thirty-something woman greeted me at the reception desk. “Hello, bonjour, and welcome. Can I help you?” she asked with a smile, not giving my glowing orange hair so much as a blink.
“How much is a room?” It came out with an icy edge of teen attitude.
The smiling woman didn’t seem to notice. “Dorm room is thirty-nine.”
My stomach sank. I’d brought all the money I had: one hundred and ninety bucks. But at that rate, camping in the bush was in my near future. Maybe I’d treat myself tonight. Tomorrow, I’d buy a cheap sleeping bag to call home.
“One night.”
I admit, my hand trembled the tiniest bit as I pulled two twenties from my beaded wallet.
The woman eyed me closely. “You know, I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name.”
Another detail I hadn’t covered. I’d need an alias in case the cops came calling. Glancing out the window, I saw a bird on the lawn. “Robin! Robin . . . Pearce!” I blurted, recalling the last name of the heroine in the book I was reading.
She paused for a moment. “Well, Robin Pearce, as it happens, one of my pub staff quit yesterday, and I’m in need of a replacement. It’s minimum wage, plus tips. You’d also get a free room in the staff quarters.” She laughed. “I guess I should ask if you’d be interested in the job before giving you the spiel.”
A lot of things ran through my mind. I wasn’t sticking around Banff. However, while I was here, it wouldn’t hurt to make some money. And having a dry place to sleep, away from bears and cougars, was a deal clincher. “Yeah, a job would be great! I arrived from Vancouver today and was going to find work right after I checked in.” The lie slid easily off my tongue.
“Do you have any experience working in a restaurant?”
It was a simple question, yet somehow I knew my answer was important.
“To be honest, not much.”
This was the truth. I’d worked one shift at the Nakoda Lodge and been fired. The boss said it was a clash of personalities—mine sucked, and he couldn’t stand me. I hurriedly smoothed over this.
“I promise I’m a quick learner and a hard worker.” The renewed smile on the woman’s face told me I’d passed the test.
“I didn’t think you were the waitress type. Let’s give it a couple of weeks to see if we’re a good fit.” She came around the counter and handed me back my twenties. “I’m Anne Collier, the manager here. Welcome aboard, Robin.”
As I shook her hand, I noticed the discoloration around my fingernails. Guess I should have worn gloves when I ruined my hair. “I appreciate the job . . .” I searched for something appropriate to call her. “. . . Ms. Collier.”
“It’s Mrs., but Anne is fine. Come on, I’ll take you to the staff quarters, and after that, we’ll do the paperwork. I’ll need some official ID, like a driver’s license, for proof of age. Working at the Root Cellar, our world-famous pub,” she added proudly, “means you’d be serving alcohol.”
Without missing a beat, another lie rocketed off my lips. “Actually, I was robbed in Surrey on my way here. It was really scary. The scum had a knife and got everything, including my wallet with all my ID.” I was shocked at how good I was at thinking up total crap on the spot.
She motioned for me to follow her. “Did the police catch the guy?”
“Not a chance.” I said with the perfect amount of indignation. “The cops couldn’t care less about one girl getting robbed.” I thought of all the tips bar waitresses get and added, “No worries, though. I’m totally eighteen.”
“We’ll have to start you in the hostel’s restaurant, Cougar Jack’s, where there’s no alcohol, until you get some ID. Oh, and I forgot to tell you another job perk,” Anne continued. “Staff get one meal per shift free, usually supper, and I’ll throw in breakfast too. Do you have enough money to carry you through to payday?” She eyed the two twenties I still clutched tightly.
“Yeah, I’m good.” I hastily jammed the bills into my wallet.
“Why don’t you take the rest of today off to explore Banff? It’s a great town.” She passed me the key to my room.
“Thanks, uh . . . Anne.”
After hauling my stuff into my room—which turned out to be small, clean, and decorated in a wild-woods style with a log bed and braided rugs—I headed out for a leisurely afternoon. Life was sweet. I thought of how proud Gran would have been about me scoring a job in the first fifteen minutes of arriving in town.
Thinking of Gran made a wave of sadness wash over me. Maybe not everything was sweet.
The afternoon was hot, and for once, my old bike performed well. I went to see the usual tourist attractions—frothing Bow Falls, the Upper Hot Springs (which smelled of sulfur), and the Cave and Basin, where prospectors in 1883 found the original hot springs. Their discovery led to the establishment of Canada’s first national park—and Banff is at the center of it. Although I’d seen it all before, pretending to be a tourist was kinda cool.
As evening shadows crept over the valley, I decided it was time for supper and started back to the hostel. The thought of a hot meal made my mouth water. I hadn’t eaten since early that morning, before I said good-bye to Gran. It would have been nice to be at her ceremony. I’m sure she understood I had no choice except to bail.
I’d turned onto Wolf Street when suddenly a rusted green step-side pickup barreled through the red light. It was in the intersection before I had the chance to process what was happening.
Reflexes took over and I cranked on the throttle to get out of the way. True to her miserable nature, that old bike didn’t respond. The massive truck grill loomed in front of me.
I had nowhere to go!
CHAPTER THREE
Superhero in Coveralls
A split second before the crash, I leaped off the bike and rolled across the pavement.
The truck hit the motorcycle, sending it crashing into the curb. I clambered to my feet in time to see the pickup rocketing down the street. I noticed one taillight was busted, and the bare bulb glared at me as the truck disappeared.
“You jerk!” I shouted, more angry than hurt. As I scanned the mangled mess that was left of my old Indian, all I could think of was the repair bill.
&
nbsp; “Man, that stinks!”
The voice made me whirl around. Without warning, I was captivated by glacier-blue eyes and a grease-smudged face.
“I saw you take your header. You okay?”
Frowning, I refocused. I didn’t want this do-gooder calling an ambulance, or worse, the cops. I nudged the broken mirror with my boot. “Yeah, I’m good. It’s my bike that needs the paramedics. This really bites.” I could feel tears threatening and blinked. This was no time to get all weepy. “I bet there aren’t any parts in all of Banff to fix this old wreck.”
The guy grinned lazily. “I might be able to help.”
It was then I noticed the coveralls with “Ace Auto Repairs” stitched on a patch and “Rory” in flowing script underneath.
“You a mechanic or something?”
“Or something.” He flashed me his killer smile again. “I work at the garage across the street. We do car repairs, and in my spare time, I twist wrenches on bikes.” He crouched down and inspected the wreckage, picking up a mangled piece. “I’ve got to admit, I haven’t seen one like this before. What is it?”
“About a million years ago, it started out as an Indian Enduro. It’s been fixed and rebuilt so many times, there’s nothing much left of the original bike except the decal.”
He tossed the remnant onto the ground, then wiggled the carburetor. “You’re right. Not many parts for this old beast around here. I might have some substitutes at my place.” He hefted the bashed-up machine onto its wheels and started pushing it up Wolf Street. “The name’s Rory Adams.”
I thought of my new persona. “Robin Pearce.” I trailed behind, picking up parts as they fell off the bike.
By the time he wheeled up a nearby driveway and into a wooden garage, I had my arms full of bits and pieces of what used to be my motorcycle. I dumped everything onto the workbench. Turning, I saw a gleaming KTM 690 Enduro sitting proudly in the corner of the garage.
Fire Fight Page 1
