Sundown on Top of the World: A Hunter Rayne Highway Mystery (20 page)

“I’ll try to reach her myself, and have her get in touch with you. How’s that?”

How indeed? Should she give out the Watson Transportation number, her cell number, or her home number? Not that it mattered much, since all her calls were forwarded when she wasn’t in the office. What if this April called and got a voice message that had nothing to do with investigations or lawyers? What if this April knew very well that she had never rescued a small dog in the Fraser Canyon? Would she even call back at all? “That will be fine,” she said, and recited the Watson 1-800 number. She knew from experience that a lot of people wait for someone to call them again rather than pay for a long distance call.

El hung up the phone and slouched back into her chair. After a big sigh and a couple of minutes staring at her phone, she looked over at Peterbilt and said, “What the hell did I tell him my name was?”

By the time Hunter had collected Sorry and their things from the lodge, being careful to stash their own belongings separate from Orville’s, and Goldie had brought him a photo copy of her mother’s note, they were late getting on the road. The drive to Whitehorse would take over eleven hours, but factoring in Sorry’s meal breaks, there was no way they’d get to Whitehorse much before midnight. Hunter took the wheel from Eagle to Dawson City, and after lunch and a fuel stop, Sorry took over from there.

“It’s just not me,” said Sorry, slamming the door of the Blazer and jamming the key into the ignition. “She always said she loved me just the way I am, and now she wants me to be somebody else. It’s not fuckin’ fair.” He peeled out of the parking spot and onto King Street, heading for Front Street and the Klondike Highway.

“Take it easy,” Hunter said. “The riverboat’s just up ahead. Watch out for foot traffic.”

“Don’t be such an old lady.”

“What turned you so sour, all of a sudden?” Hunter frowned. “You want me to drive?”

Sorry slowed down as they neared the Keno, the big white riverboat with its orange paddlewheel, beached on the bank of the Yukon River in Dawson since 1960. A couple with two young kids stood on the river side of the road, waiting to cross Front Street to the shops on the other side. Sorry braked to a sudden stop to let them cross.

Hunter couldn’t help noticing that the little girl and boy were roughly the same ages as Sorry’s two kids, Sasha and Bruno. Sorry watched them cross, the little boy between the two parents, holding their hands, running ahead until he was airborne, then swinging back to the ground as they caught up with him. Sorry let out a long sigh.

“So I take it you were talking to Simone,” said Hunter as the Blazer accelerated at a slower pace.

The big man nodded. “Some chick she met at Bruno’s daycare –“

“Chick?”

“Another mother, okay? You’re right, I’m in a fuckin’ sour mood. Humor me, okay?” Sorry threw a scowl in Hunter’s direction. “Anyway, Mo obviously was airing our dirty laundry to this
mother,
and the
mother
is some kind of do-gooder so she talked her husband into finding me a job, except said
mother
was talking about it to my
wife
, as if I was some kind of idiot who couldn’t find my own job or be trusted to talk to this guy myself.”

“That sounds promising. What kind of job?”

“Local deliveries. Some kind of distributor, plumbing I think. The guy’s the manager or maybe the owner. ”

“Making deliveries in the Lower Mainland? Day shift, I assume. Sounds perfect for a guy with two young kids. And sounds like Mo wants to keep you around after all.”

Hunter let Sorry chew on the idea as he drove out of Dawson City. For miles along the highway, they could see tailings ponds and piles of gravel, evidence of man’s historic and ongoing search for El Dorado. Dark green hills rose on either side, a pristine backdrop to the swiss cheese landscape.

Somewhat more subdued, after they passed the Dawson airport the big man said, “Can you see me reporting in to work every day with a smarmy smile on my face? Yes, boss. No, boss. Whatever you say, boss. Every day, forever?” He snorted. “When I have an opinion on something, I fuckin’ say it out loud. That’s the way I am. She knew that the first day she met me.”

“You sound like a petulant teenager, Dan. You have a family to support. Suck it up, be a man, and do something worthwhile with your life.”

“But –“

“Look. Abraham Lincoln said something like, people are as happy as they make up their minds to be. You haven’t even started this new job, and you’re already looking for excuses to quit. Why don’t you start looking for excuses to like the job, and reasons to like the guy who’s prepared to give it to you? You want to stick with Mo – or her to stick with you – then make up your mind to work at it, and enjoy the ride.”

Sorry sulked for a few seconds, then said, “Look who’s talking.”

Hunter clenched his jaw and took a deep breath. He sure walked into that one. What had he done to save his marriage to Christine? In retrospect, he guessed he’d put blinders on. He figured her complaints weren’t as serious as she made them out to be, trusted she would put up with his workaholic behavior because it went with his job and besides, she knew he was a Mountie before she said ‘yes’. And then he thought about the nights he didn’t make it home for dinner because he was at the bar with Ken, trying to keep his best friend sane.

“Our situation was complicated.”

“Yeah, right.”

“Our kids were older. And they were both girls. Bruno, especially, needs a good male role model.”

“And you figure that’s me?”

“Yes, Dan. I do.”

By unspoken mutual agreement, they dropped the subject for the rest of the drive.

Hunter woke up feeling cold and stiff. He was in the reclined passenger seat of the Blazer; the jacket he’d covered his chest and shoulders with had slipped down to his waist. He blinked his eyes against the climbing sun, as the details of his arrival in Whitehorse some hours before came back to him, his memory gradually emerging from the fog of sleep.

It had been too late to go to Bart’s, and he’d decided that what was left of the night wasn’t worth paying for a hotel room, or even driving the streets of Whitehorse looking for a vacancy sign. They decided to drive to the mechanic’s to see if the Blue Knight was outside so at least one of them could take advantage of the bunk in the Freightliner’s sleeper. The mechanic’s dog had raised a ruckus, rousing the mechanic, who was gracious enough not to swear out loud although he was none too pleased to see them. Hunter stupidly agreed to toss for the sleeper, and lost. So now Sorry was snoring peacefully on a mattress in the sleeper while he, the truck’s owner, was unsuccessfully trying to get back to sleep in an uncomfortable and smelly SUV. You don’t want to roll down the windows in the Yukon during mosquito season, which means pretty much all summer.

So Hunter was not feeling at all refreshed or energetic when he arrived at the RCMP detachment a few hours later. He was escorted to Bart’s office, where he slouched in a chair waiting for Bart to come back from a meeting.

“So what have you got for me?”

Bart’s voice jolted Hunter out of an involuntary snooze. He yawned and rubbed one eye.

“Keeping you up?”

“Sorry. Orville’s belongings are locked in the back of your brother-in-law’s Blazer, out in the parking lot. You want to get them now?”

Bart shook his head. “I don’t know what to make of him.”

“That’s not like you. You’ve got an instinct for people.”

“That’s the problem. My instinct tells me he’s a good man. Why would a good man stick a knife in an old friend?”

“They were friends?”

“The deceased, as it turns out, was using an alias. The man we knew in town as Colin Thompson, owner of Lost Mine strip club and bar, was born Charles Collins in Barrie, Ontario. A records search turned up a claim staked in 1984 by partners Charles Collins and Orville Barstow. Partners usually start out as friends, or at least trusting each other; maybe not so wise on Orville’s part. Collins also had a police record: fraud and theft in Toronto in the 70s.”

“So the partners had a falling out?”

“Kind of looks that way. Collins showed up in town the spring of ‘86 with a new name and enough money to buy that bar. That was just a couple years after they staked that claim. Changed his looks, too. I always wondered why a guy would go to the trouble of keeping his head shaved up here. Most mammals up here grow thick coats in the winter. I guess bald was part of his new identity.”

“Did Orville admit to anything?”

“His line is pretty much ‘Nothing personal, but I’m not talking to you. Charge me and I’ll get a lawyer.’ So he won’t talk until he’s charged and he won’t talk if he is. I can’t say I feel good about it, but given the circumstantial evidence, we’ve asked the Crown to approve a murder charge. Second degree. At least that way we can search his truck and belongings and have time to look for witnesses. Otherwise, since he’d already fled the country, I wouldn’t expect him to stick around.”

Just then a constable appeared at the door, piece of paper in hand. “Just got the Barstow warrant,” he said. “You want to see him?”

“You bet,” said Bart, then to Hunter, “I don’t think this will take long. You want to wait here or in the canteen?”

“Any chance I could see the file?”

Bart frowned a second, then slapped a thick folder with his hand and said, “Don’t let me catch you reading this.” With a wink and a nod, he left the room.

It didn’t take Hunter more than a minute or two to lose himself in the file. The gears turned a little slower than they used to, but his drive to investigate came back as strong as if he’d never left the force. He scanned the crime scene photos and the report by the first officers on the scene, then began to look for the witness interviews that had led to Orville being identified as a ‘person of interest’.

There were several witness interviews, all of them either employees of Lost Mine or patrons who had been in the bar sometime during the evening prior to Collins’ murder. What struck Hunter immediately was that Orville Barstow hadn’t been alone, or at least, there had been another man present when Orville had first encountered Collins in the bar. It was Orville, however, who had spoken to Collins. The most detailed witness accounts came from two men who had evidently been sitting at the table next to the one occupied by Orville and his unidentified companion. Hunter read the transcript of each interview twice.

‘Colin came up to talk to us –like we’re regulars, eh? He sends us free beers sometimes, and sits down with us once in a while. I guess I mean used to. He was a nice guy and I feel real bad for his wife and kid that he’s gone. So he was standing beside my buddy’s chair and we were talkin’, like, and then I see this old guy at the table behind Colin do a double take, like he can’t believe what he’s hearin’. Then he says, kind of low like, ‘Colin’s, isn’t it?’ and Colin freezes, without turning around even, and if you ever heard someone say the blood drained outa his face, well, that’s exactly like it was. Like he saw a ghost or somethin’. But he keeps talkin’ to us, like he didn’t hear the guy. And then the guy says louder, You bleedin’ bastard, like, the guy’s English, eh? I mean from England.

‘You left us for dead, you bastard, he said. You could see Colin start to sweat.’ The witness went on to say that they didn’t hear the younger man who was with Orville say anything, just Orville. ‘But if looks could kill, Colin woulda been a dead man, right that minute.’ The witness said Colin continued to pretend he hadn’t heard anything, and began to walk away. Orville’s companion made as if to get to his feet and follow, but Orville put his hand on the man’s arm and said something like ‘Now is not the time’. The two finished their drinks in silence – at least, they said nothing that the witnesses could hear – and left the bar. ‘From the look on their faces, they were really pissed off at Colin.’

The second witness told the same story, with some critical information added. He walked out to the parking lot just a few minutes after Orville left. He saw Orville get in his truck and drive away, and was able to give the RCMP a fairly accurate description of the truck. Collins had been killed in the parking lot about two hours later. All of the witnesses were asked if they saw Orville’s companion get into a vehicle, or if they had ever seen him before or since. None of them had.

Hunter had questions forming in his mind, questions that he would put to Bart. Did they have any additional information on Orville’s companion? Did Collins’ wife have any information on Collins’ past? Did Collins speak to anyone at the bar about, or make any phone calls mentioning, the appearance of the two men? Were the RCMP able to locate anyone in Whitehorse who was previously acquainted with Orville Barstow?

He had to remind himself that he wasn’t part of this investigation, that his job now was hauling freight and he still had a delivery to complete once his tractor was repaired. Yet, in spite of that, he felt a sense of frustration, almost a straining at the leash, about his inability to help Bart get to the truth about this man who had befriended an aging Alaskan bush woman and her granddaughter. He had yet to meet Orville, but had already developed a sense of his kindness and good nature.

Bart’s return interrupted his musings.