by R. E. Donald
Hunter nodded. "Unfortunately, grief is something you have to meet head on, take the lumps." Easier said than done, he admitted to himself. "Otherwise it can ambush you later on." The truck rattled over a cattle guard built into the road, which was now unpaved, as they began to climb another hill. The side mirror showed billows of pale dust rising in their wake.
"Life's a bitch and then you die," recited Gary, staring grimly at the road ahead.
Hunter studied the younger man's face, those parts not hidden behind the dark glasses. It was a strong, symmetrical face, with taut, healthy looking skin. The mouth was sensual and expressive, although the lips were less than full. Hunter suspected that the dark glasses were a conscious vanity, because he'd noticed last night how Gary's face lost much of its strength when his eyes were exposed. They were a washed out blue with short pale lashes, and just a little too close together.
As they crested the hill, a long blue expanse of water came into view. Kamloops Lake. A short distance ahead was a log archway, into the topmost pole of which were burned the words Lazy K Ranch, and below that, Welcome. Soon they were looking down on the untidy cluster of log buildings and network of fences that comprised the Lazy K.
Once they'd parked the truck, Gary introduced Hunter to his friend, Jack Turpin, who was busy saddling up a group of bored looking horses. Jack looked the part of a lanky, laconic cowboy, dressed in faded blue denim and tall dusty boots.
"Kingston's tied up, so I'm taking half a dozen dudes out this morning," he said. "You guys will be on your own. You mind?"
Hunter shrugged agreeably.
Gary shook his head. "Not a problem. I know my way around," he said. "That realtor's truck," he motioned towards a Jeep Cherokee with a logo on the door, "belong to a dude?"
Jack shook his head and raised one eyebrow meaningfully.
Gary nodded and pursed his lips. "Already?" He sighed deeply before bending to pick up a saddle. "Shit."
It felt good to be in the saddle again. With the empty brown hills unrolling in front of him and the sky weightless overhead, Hunter sensed the same promise of freedom that he felt behind the wheel on a good day, maybe even more so. A couple of hours out, they reined up at a viewpoint and dismounted, settling themselves on a couple of large rocks as their horses pulled half-heartedly at spiky clumps of grass, snorting drily, bridles clinking.
Gary pulled a couple of cans of beer out of an insulated bag and handed one to Hunter. The tab popped inside with a crack that startled the horses, and Hunter held the can at arms length as the beer foamed out of the hole and formed small frothy beads in the dust between his outstretched legs. It wasn't ice cold, but it was still cool and wet. They both took several long swallows, then turned to grin at each other.
"Bliss, eh?" said Gary. He sucked his breath in audibly through closed teeth. "I love this cowboy stuff!"
"The ranch is up for sale?" asked Hunter.
Gary nodded. He took a few thoughtful sips, then looked sideways at Hunter. "Just between you and me," he said, "I'd love to buy the place."
Hunter nodded. He wondered if Gary was just dreaming, or if he actually had a way to finance a purchase of that size.
"Suzanne doesn't know, and I trust you won't say anything. Unfortunately, this doesn't seem like the right time to bring it up." He sighed heavily. "There's no way we could afford it, of course, unless she sold the company, and even then ... I haven't a clue what Ranverdan would sell for. Have you?"
"No idea. Are the trucks all paid for?"
Gary shrugged. "I wouldn't even want to ask right now. Suzanne ... well ... it's like Ranverdan is part of her dad, or maybe her dad is a part of it, or whatever. No, I wouldn't even want to ask."
"Even then," said Hunter, "running a ranch isn't something you can learn overnight. Why's he selling? Maybe he can't turn a profit on it. Could be he's just trying to unload a big money pit, pretty as it might be."
Gary turned over his empty beer can and shook it, watched a few flecks of foam drop to the dirt. "Kingston's only fifty five, but ever since I've known him, he's talked about retiring and moving to southern California. I didn't think he'd be ready to sell for another five or ten years, I thought he was having too much fun, but maybe he figures the market's hot. The annual Kamloops cattle drive is getting to be a big thing, starting to attract people from all over the States. You know, the City Slickers scene? The Baby Boomers and their increasing leisure time, that sort of shit.
"Oh, well. I'm not going to push it. When Suzanne's ready ... " Gary pulled out another beer, offered it to Hunter. Hunter accepted, and Gary opened one for himself. "When Suzanne's ready, she'll remember."
"Remember?"
"Yeah. She and I met at university, back when we were both studying Recreation, which was a popular field for people who didn't like math or English, right?" Gary flashed a small self-deprecating smile. "We were big on plans but short on practicality – like, we never worried about how we were going to pay for it, but our dream back then was to one day have our own guest ranch. She was working part time in a restaurant then, and talked about how she'd be able to run the lodge, decide on the menus and stuff. She got excited about baking her own pies. Rhubarb. She loved the idea of rhubarb." He laughed softly, shaking his head. "And I would look after the stables, mend the fences, tend bar – I was working part time as a bartender – and do all the handyman stuff. We had it all worked out.
"The trucking business never came up. Becoming truckers is not something either of us would ever have predicted ... or wished for. Driving truck." He sighed, then looked over at Hunter with a quizzical frown. "How about you? You were with the R.C.M.P. How in hell did you ever end up in this business?"
A ghost of a smile on his lips, Hunter stared off at the horizon. "Just luck," he said quietly. "Sheer good luck."
CHAPTER 5
– – – – FIVE
Suzanne was on the phone when Murphy walked in. For a bear of a man – a thick neck atop rounded shoulders, a barrel chest that segued into a big belly – he stepped with surprising delicacy around the toys littering the office floor and smiled a sweet apology as he perched his big body on the edge of the sofa. He wore slightly mismatched olive colored work pants and shirt, and carried a well worn peaked cap in his hands. Suzanne jotted down the details of the call – a pickup in Vernon to be scheduled for Friday afternoon – thanked the caller, put down the receiver, and looked up at the big man.
"Hello, Murph," she said, and burst into tears.
Before she knew it, her arms were around him and he cradled her head against his sturdy chest, rocking her gently from side to side.
"Poor little Suzy," he crooned. "Poor little Suzy."
Murphy had known her father ever since the big Newfoundlander's first trip out west from eastern Canada some twenty years ago. They both loved to tell the story of how Randy had been fueling up his truck when Murphy'd pulled up beside him at a service station in the town of Golden, just west of the Rockies. The big Newfie had tumbled out of his cab, fallen to his knees, and kissed the filthy asphalt. "Sweet Jesus! Holy Mother of God!" he'd cried. "T'anks to you both for getting me t'rough 'dem bleedin' big mountains!" Her father had laughed so hard he'd cried, and Murphy had gone red in the face and threatened to punch him to Kingdom Come. They became fast friends and a year later, when Suzanne's father started Ranverdan Transport, Murphy had moved out west to Kamloops to drive for him.
Murphy's work shirt smelled of dust and diesel and old sweat. Suzanne pulled away and looked up at the ruddy, round face. "I'm okay, Murph," she said.
"I come as soon as I got back in town once't I heard. I'm so sorry, darlin'. So sorry. Your dad and me ... well, you know about your dad and me ... I loved him like a brother, I truly did."
She nodded, trying to smile through her tears. "I know, Murph."
"If there's anything I can do, you just whistle, hear? You just whistle and I'll be there, whatever you need, eh?"
The phone rang and Suzanne broke away
to answer. "Ranverdan Transport," she said.
"I'm trying to reach Hunter Rayne. Is he there?" The male caller had a pleasant, confident voice.
"No. Is there a message?"
"Ah, good. I have the right number. Could I reach him on his cell phone, do you think?"
"I don't know, he might be out of range, but I can take a message for him here. He should be back by about two or two thirty."
"Fine. Tell him that Sergeant Bill Earl of the Kamloops R.C. ..., oh, just tell him that Bill Earl called. He'll know what it's about."
"About my father?" Suzanne's heart began to race. "This is Suzanne Rodgers. Randy Danyluk is my father. Is it about my father?"
"My condolences, Ms. Rodgers. Please have Hunter give me a call when he gets back."
"Have you found something out about the accident? Do you know why ... what happened? Was it ... did my dad ..." She wasn't aware until after she'd spoken that her words would sound so desperate. She tried to compose herself, adopt a more businesslike tone. "Is there any evidence of how the accident happened?"
"I'm sorry, ma'am. I'm afraid I can't tell you anything. Please, you'd best just have Hunter give me a call."
Murphy's face when she looked up was grave, almost angry. "Who was that?" he demanded.
Suzanne looked up at him, surprised at his vehemence. "The R.C.M.P."
"They hung up on you?" His face had begun to redden. "Those bastards ... haven't they got any feelin' for ... "
"No, no, Murphy. It's not like that at all. You know Hunter? He's one of El's drivers. He used to be in the R.C.M.P., and that was a friend of his."
"Hunter? No, I can't say's I know him. Maybe seen him down at Watson a time or two, but the name doesn't ring any bells." He was still scowling.
"He's about Dad's height, five ten or so, I guess. Not a big guy, average build, short light brown hair, but not military short. Plain dresser, but kind of tidy looking. Reminds me a little of Bryan Adams, except older, but not as old as Dad." She frowned, trying to think of how to describe him. "You'd remember his eyes. He's got those intense kind of eyes – stares right into you – I'm not sure what color, maybe blue."
Murphy smiled and shook his head. "I don't go lookin' at fellows' eyes, darlin'. And I don't know this Adams fellow, either. Can't place him, sorry. No, wait. You say he used to be in the R.C.M.P?"
She nodded.
"Sure," he said. "Tidy, shortish hair, has that policeman kind of look about him. I've seen the guy."
"Well, he's checking with his friends, trying to get some information for me, just as a favor. El asked him to."
"He is, is he? Good for him, then." The scowl metamorphosed back into Murphy's familiar good natured grin. "Meanwhile, don't you forget what I said." He tipped an imaginary hat. "If there's anything I can ever do for you, Suzy darlin', just you whistle."
When Hunter and Gary pulled into the driveway of Randy's house, Suzanne had opened the front door to greet them by the time they stepped out of the truck. Hunter could feel himself stiffening up already, and was stretching his legs and back with a certain painful satisfaction as Suzanne approached, the two little girls dancing along behind her.
"Your friend phoned, Hunter. Bill Earl? He says to call him back." Hunter gathered from her eager tone that she was anxious to hear what Bill had to report, and he couldn't bear to disappoint her. Leaving her and Gary outside with the kids, he went into the Ranverdan office to make the call.
When he got off the phone they were still outside chatting as they watched Jolie pretend to drive Gary's truck while Veri bounced up and down noisily on the passenger seat. Suzanne turned at his approach, rubbing her palms on her denim covered thighs, her eyes wide in anticipation.
"Not much to report yet," Hunter told her. "No obvious evidence of any kind of collision, so on the surface it looks like a single vehicle accident. Bill suggested I speak directly with the officer in Merritt who's handling the investigation, but says he probably won't be able to tell me much more until the master mechanics have gone over the vehicle."
"A single vehicle accident? Are you trying to say that Dad just drove off the road?"
"Any driver can find himself nodding off at the wheel at one time or another," said Gary.
Suzanne turned on him. "Dad wasn't just any driver!"
Hunter noticed Gary's jaw stiffen, and hastened to intervene. "Nobody's saying that the accident was your dad's fault. There could be any number of reasons besides an actual collision. Blowout, mechanical failure ..."
"El said maybe ... The autopsy!" she blurted out. "Wasn't that this morning?"
"Yes, but that just confirmed the cause of death. It didn't reveal the cause of the accident."
"And?"
"Bill said he died of multiple injuries."
"I thought ... El said that maybe it was a heart attack. She said maybe that was why he drove off the road. I'd hoped that ... at least that way I'd know he didn't suffer much." She paused, her hand combing the hair back off her forehead as she stared at the ground. "At least did they say when he died? How long he'd lain there before ... ?" Her eyes were pleading, desperate.
Hunter shook his head. "I doubt that they can pinpoint it that accurately."
"Oh, God! I just need to know that he didn't lie there ... Surely they could tell something. How long before he ..."
"I'm sorry. Bill didn't have the actual report in front of him, so he didn't have too many details, and he probably couldn't answer that question if he did."
"Almost two days he was down there. Almost two days before they found him. If he didn't die instantly ... Oh, God!" She covered her mouth with her hand, took several deep breaths through her nose. "Don't tell me he was still alive! If only we'd called the R.C.M.P. in sooner. If only I'd gone myself ..."
Gary moved to his wife and gently put his hands on her shoulders. "Suzy, don't torture yourself. It's over, and there's nothing anybody can do." He stroked her hair as she looked at him blankly, then began to draw her close. "You don't have to know these things. Your dad wouldn't want you to worry. Shhhh, now."
"Don't shhhh me! I'm not a little girl, goddamn it!" Suzanne pulled herself away. "He was my father, and I have to know. I have to know!"
She turned and ran into the house. Gary's mouth twisted and he kicked the tire of the 4x4. "Shit!" He looked in the direction his wife had disappeared. "Shit!" he said again, then seemed to realize that the bewildered faces of his two little daughters were pressed against the windows of the pickup. He sighed and turned to Hunter with a pained look on his face. "See what I mean?" he said. "I hate to see her hurting like that, but she won't let me ..." His voice trailed off.
Her distress made Hunter uncomfortable, too. "I'll take a run down to Merritt and see what else I can find out," he said, and hoped like hell that he could find out something that would set her mind at rest. Bill Earl had told him to contact Garth Pullen, the General Duty member of the Merritt R.C.M.P. detachment who was working on the case.
Gary's jaw muscles were tensing again, his hand was balled at his side. "Thanks," he said through clenched teeth, then slowly and deliberately relaxed his hand, rubbing it against his jeans. "I'll get you the keys to Randy's Suburban."
Randy wouldn't like the fact, Hunter knew, that his daughter was suffering so much on his account. Randy wouldn't like it at all.
It was a fine spring day, still not too hot to let his elbow lean out the window and the wind roar past his left ear. Randy's deep green Suburban was clean and comfortable. It felt solid and benevolent. Hunter couldn't believe how much he found himself looking forward to the afternoon. He was feeling that same old stirring of the senses he used to experience in the force. He loved investigative work, always had.
It had been over three years since he'd resigned from the R.C.M.P. That was a year after he'd made the pension, a year after he'd passed the twentieth anniversary milestone. He'd endured the usual ribbing from his younger colleagues, and accepted the welcomes and congratulations from fell
ow "lifers". Then Ken died. Accidentally shot himself while cleaning his gun, was the official version. Ken, his friend from those first crazy months at the Depot in Regina. Ken, whose career had paralleled Hunter's own.
Ken's death hit Hunter hard. He carried on though, because he knew he'd get over it. He told himself that other members had died, retired, disappeared from his life. Pay your respects and get on with it, he told himself, trying to drown out the voice that kept repeating, Why, Ken? Why did you do it? Try as he might to pretend it was business as usual, it was like his heart had gone numb. Like it just wasn't pumping enough blood to move his muscles, or to send oxygen to his brain. Just reporting for duty was exhausting, and he could never seem to clear his head. What else could he do? It was over.
The night he decided to resign from the force, Hunter had gone for a long drive and ended up having coffee at the Husky truck stop in Chilliwack well after midnight, where he met a driver with an '86 Freightliner to sell. A few months and a driving course later, Hunter had his commercial driver's license and was on the road. At first he drove for an outfit that sent him all over the continent for less than ninety cents a mile and was so late cutting his checks that he missed the first payment on the bank loan he had needed to pay for the truck, and then he had the good fortune to meet a driver who referred him to El. She made him buy a later model truck, but promised to keep him west of the Mississippi and pay him promptly. So far, she'd kept her word.
The Coquihalla climbed out of the Thompson valley and the temperature dropped. Kamloops' sandy brown hills, lightly furred with spring green, gave way to mountain slopes covered with endless ranks of dark evergreens, white spruce, fir and lodgepole pine. Here and there brown and white Hereford cattle grazed in ragged clearings, and high on the left side bank, where the hill had been sliced away to build the road, he saw a young moose, standing behind the wire fence and gazing at the greener pastures on the other side of the highway. The Suburban sprinted up the long hills and coasted down the short slopes until it reached the long smooth decline into the Nicola Valley. The view, one of Hunter's favorites, unfolded below like a giant map. Beyond his left elbow, the Nicola River twisted north and east between brilliant green borders, past Quilchena and back towards Kamloops, and southward, over the steering wheel, the town of Merritt sprawled in a trough between dark swollen mountains.
