Sundown on Top of the World: A Hunter Rayne Highway Mystery (33 page)

She averted her eyes and the wine glass stopped halfway to her lips. “I didn’t want to think about it. I still don’t. Do you feel you have to tell me?”

“Do you know a man named Fred Klimmer? He apparently had one of the trapline concessions adjacent to Martin’s. He was originally from northern Manitoba and had moved to the Yukon just a few years earlier.”

She shook her head. “A few men stopped in at the cabin while I was there, but he never invited them inside, that’s for sure. Like I told you, and like Tag said, Martin was pretty paranoid and kept to himself mostly. My husband says that’s another symptom of PTSD. He certainly never introduced me to any trappers in the area. I’m sure I would have remembered. Why?”

“He’s the one who called us in. He said he’d seen that some of Martin’s traps hadn’t been tended in a long time, so he decided to swing by on his snow sled and check on him. He found the cabin abandoned, the door open. The dogs were still there, chained to their shelters, and hungry, as if they hadn’t been fed for days.”

“But Martin wasn’t there? Or his body?” She shivered. “I don’t remember there being snow. Do we have to talk about this?”

”Just a couple more questions. I’d rather not have to ask you to come back to the detachment, although that will be Staff Sergeant Sam’s call.”

“Look, I was a victim. I was almost killed. Why should the RCMP care after twenty-five years if I don’t?” She still wouldn’t meet his eyes.

His voice softened, even though he wasn’t sure of her motive for not cooperating. He was well aware, even if she wasn’t, that he had no legitimate reason to be questioning her. “I’m sorry.”

She finally looked straight at him and even managed a small smile.

“I just wanted you to try again to remember what your attacker looked like. Anything that might help identify him. A tattoo. A scar. A mole or a birthmark.”

She tilted her head back and closed her eyes. He wondered whether she was making an effort to visualize the man in the cabin, or to think up a plausible description that would get Hunter off her back.

“Brown eyes, I think. A heavy, dark beard that hid his mouth and chin. An unwashed smell.” Her facial expression showed her disgust. “He snarled at me.” Her eyes opened and sought out his. “He snarled at me,” she repeated. “He snarled at me and his lips curled back and I saw his teeth. Crooked teeth. I remember his crooked teeth.”

“Crooked in what way? Can you describe them?”

She closed her eyes again to concentrate, but soon shook her head. “No. If I try too hard to picture them, I get confused. I just remember crooked teeth. Evil teeth.” She shivered. “No. It’s been too long. I can’t describe them, but I might recognize them if I saw them again.”

He shrugged. “Well, it’s one more thing to look for,” he said.

“As much as I want to forget that day and never think of it again, I will come back to testify if you find him,” she said, picking up her wine glass and raising it toward him. “Here’s to you guys catching the fucking bastard.”

Hunter raised his glass. “I’ll drink to that.”

Goldie could tell that Betty was asleep by the slow cadence of her breathing. Braving the evening mosquitoes , she left the cabin. She felt a need to walk down the path to the river. On the long drive back to Eagle from Dawson City, her head had been spinning with thoughts of her mother, and Betty, and Mark – all the sudden changes in her life. She tried to calm that inner turmoil as she walked the familiar path between the trees, Hootie trotting along ahead.

Her grandmother had been asleep when they went through U.S. Customs. Mark handed over his own driver’s license and the one that Tessa had loaned to Goldie. The customs officer had peered in at Gran, and asked if she, too, was a U.S. citizen. Goldie stammered out something about Gran not having a driver’s license. When Mark whispered, “She’s a native. She’s her granny,” pointing to Goldie, the officer had shrugged and waved them on.

Goldie assumed that Betty had no government ID either, but it was something she hadn’t given much thought to before today. It was no wonder that Gran had never made any effort to get a birth certificate for her, since she probably didn’t have one herself. That compounded her worry about what would happen to Gran if Goldie weren’t around and she could no longer support or take care of herself. If she wasn’t officially a citizen of either Canada or the U.S., would there be any government assistance for her?

Goldie wanted to leave Eagle so bad that it hurt. She wanted to move on and experience life outside, see as much of the world as she could, meet new people, learn new things. As much as she loved Gran, she just couldn’t let Gran’s welfare be her primary objective in life. It wasn’t fair. The decision she faced caused an almost physical knot in her chest. Either she gave up her freedom for Gran’s sake or she suffered the guilt of deserting the woman who had raised her. It wasn’t fair for Gran to make her do that. Maybe it wasn’t fair either way. What was it she’d heard Mark say, flippantly, at his own complaints?
Life’s a bitch and then you die.

At the thought of Mark, she felt a warmth in her chest and a restless sensation between her legs. When he’d dropped them off at their cabin, he waited outside in the summer kitchen, drinking a can of pop he’d bought in Dawson, until she’d got Betty into bed. When she came out to join him, he motioned her to sit beside him, put his arm around her shoulders and offered her a sip of his Pepsi. He gave her shoulders a squeeze and she felt his breath on her neck as he leaned close to plant a soft kiss on her cheek.

No clumsy adolescent groping like the boys from school. He was gentle and respectful and she felt lightheaded with love. Love? The very word scared her, but what else could it be? She felt a great tenderness for him and it made her want to be so close to him that their bodies would merge into one, somehow. But the fear of losing herself to that feeling made her stiffen against it. He hugged her again and stood up.

“You’re tired. We both are. I’ll tell Aunt Sally that you might not be back at work tomorrow.” With that, he had climbed back in Yukon Sally’s big pickup and driven away. She stood to watch him go, but she was too wired to sit still or go to bed, so here she was.

She reached the bank of the Yukon and sank cross-legged on a patch of long grass overlooking the river. Never had she felt her life so beyond her control. It was exciting and at the same time she missed the familiarity of the grueling but predictable life she’d been living when it was just her and Gran. They always knew what they had to do each month to make sure they would have enough to feed themselves and Hootie from season to season, and enough wood for the stove. Now the next month and the next season were uncertain. Would she visit her mother in Oregon and end up staying there, going to college perhaps, or getting a job? Would Mark ask her to go with him to California?

The Yukon flowed past her vantage point, the smooth malleability of its surface disguising the power of the currents beneath. She knew it would let her punch her puny fist deep into its face, but it wouldn’t let her break free of its icy grip if it chose to pull her down. Like Alaska herself, it gave so generously and yet could take so cruelly away. No, not cruelly. Indifferently. She sighed. The river always helped put things in perspective. She had faith that, when the time came, she would know what to do.

She would miss the river.

– – – – – NINETEEN

Hunter lay awake in the sleeper of his Freightliner. Now that it was approaching time to leave the Yukon, he felt under pressure to solve the riddle of the bloody cabin. After today’s revelation about Martin Blake/Blake Michaels’ identity, he felt the key could lie with Grant Sanford. Why would someone leave that note at the RCMP detachment in Whitehorse tying Grant Sanford to the bloody cabin? Who stood to benefit from that misinformation? Maybe, given the trauma April seemed to have suffered that day, she was wrong in identifying the dead man in the cabin as Martin Blake.

Could it be that the paranoid Blake Michaels had killed April’s attacker, panicked, and once again gone on the run? Is that why his vehicle was never found? And what about the man Blake had seen and worried could identify him? Was that just PTSD paranoia, or was there a good reason for Blake to leave the southern end of the Yukon without his dogs and never even return to the area for his mail?

If Grant Sanford, army deserter and murderer, wanted the world to think him dead, identifying the missing and presumed dead trapper as Grant Sanford was a good way to do it. That led to two possibilities: either Grant Sanford killed Martin Blake, or he recognized an opportunity and took advantage of it. The trapper’s disappearance had made the local news and would have spread in the region by word of mouth, indicating Sanford probably lived in the Yukon. Was he the man Blake had seen in Teslin and worried he’d been recognized by?

The sun had set and risen again, sunlight streaked in via gaps in the curtain, and Hunter was still awake. He turned over, punched his pillow and turned his face to the back wall of the bunk. The note had turned up in October of 1973, so whoever left the note about Grant Sanford had been in Whitehorse almost a year after the attack on April. Could he still be in the Yukon?

So he had new questions, questions that he knew April couldn’t answer. One person he could think of who might be able to shed some light on the case was the trapper who had been concerned about Martin Blake’s untended traps, the man who had alerted the RCMP to the abandoned cabin. Was there anything he hadn’t told them about Blake back in 1972? Hunter had given himself until the afternoon before he left Whitehorse in search of a load home. He decided to see if he could talk to Fred Klimmer before he headed south.

That decision was enough to let his imagination rest and he was soon asleep.

“That was twenty-five years ago, man. If I couldn’t help you then, what makes you think I can help you now?”

The man lowered himself into a well-used recliner, propped his cane against the right side armrest. Greasy crumbs, presumably from his breakfast, clung to the front of his shabby argyle pullover. His speech was slow. The stroke had affected his left side, giving his face a lopsided appearance. Hunter would have had trouble recognizing him. Fred Klimmer was a withered version of the robust man Hunter remembered; his face sported grey stubble instead of a full dark beard and his nose was red and misshapen. The man couldn’t have been any older than Orville, but the two retired trappers couldn’t have been more different. Where Orville radiated joy and optimism, this man was dismal and sullen. Hunter felt sympathy for Klimmer, in spite of his previous dislike for the man.

The man’s present home was two rooms in a large and rundown private house. The flooring was thin parquet tiles, chipped in places, and the walls were in need of fresh paint. On one side of the main room was a laminate counter, fridge and hotplate with a small wooden table and a single wooden chair. Hunter sat on a lumpy sofa next to Klimmer’s recliner, both facing a small but recent model television against the opposite wall. The room was untidy, and smelled of old garbage and burned bacon. Klimmer’s world had shrunk from the vast Yukon wilderness to this stuffy apartment. A waiting room for death.

“Just covering all the bases,” Hunter said. “Maybe you later remembered something you didn’t mention at the time. Maybe you came across something while you were hunting or working your traps?” The man just stared at him, but his right hand toyed with the TV remote control that lay on a metal TV tray beside his chair. “Did you ever come across Blake’s truck, for example?”

The man shook his head, more with irritation, it seemed, than as an answer. “Why this interest all of a sudden? Just leave it alone.”

Klimmer’s attitude struck Hunter as odd. Most elderly people welcomed distractions like this from their normal routine. He didn’t remember the man as being unfriendly, just unlikeable. Now he sounded downright hostile. Maybe it came with the stroke. Or maybe not.

“Do you have any family back home?” he asked.

“If I had family, do you think I’d be living here in this godforsaken frozen country with no money for booze and nothing to do but watch soap operas and sitcoms?”

“Manitoba’s weather isn’t much better than here, maybe worse.”

Hunter caught the slight jerk of the man’s head before Klimmer grunted, “Right.”

“My mother and father are both from Winnipeg. Where in Manitoba are you from?”

The man’s right eye narrowed. “Enough questions, okay?”

“Just trying to be friendly, chief.” If this was his last shot at solving the case, he really wanted to get Klimmer talking, loosen him up. “Look, I still feel like I owe you one. You didn’t have to go check on your neighbor; you didn’t have to do the right thing and call us in on it. I’d feel better if I made your day today, at least. You say you’ve got no money for booze? What’s your poison? I’ll get you a forty pounder to cheer you up.”

Klimmer’s right eyebrow shot up and he offered half a smile. “I wouldn’t turn down a bottle of Jack Daniels,” he said, “if you can get it.”

Hunter told Klimmer he had a couple of errands to run but he’d be back in an hour or two. He called Bart as soon as he was out the door, told him about his visit to Klimmer and asked for a favor. “Can you turn something up on him? Place of birth, where he grew up, next of kin – anything you can find in a hurry. The case file says he’s from northern Manitoba and has no prior criminal record there, but I’ve got a funny feeling that he’s not being totally straight with me.”

He could hear Bart Sam sigh before he replied, “Grasping at straws, Hunter? He was ruled out as a suspect twenty-five years ago, wasn’t he?”

“Yes. Fred Klimmer was ruled out.”

“What are you getting at then?”

“Fred Klimmer was ruled out but Grant Sanford wasn’t.”

“Grant Sanford? He’s the dead man, isn’t he?”

“Look, we don’t have much time. Our only witness will be on a flight out of Whitehorse this afternoon. And another thing, we found out yesterday that Martin Blake’s real name was Blake Michaels from a place called Salineville in Ohio. Can you get something on him? Find out if Blake Michaels was a deserter from the US military and if he has any relatives who can confirm that he hasn’t made contact with them in the last twenty-five years?”

There were a few seconds of silence. Hunter heard Bart say, “You’re not the boss of me.” With that, the line went dead.

Hunter didn’t waste any time getting to the detachment.

“He’s expecting you,” said the woman at the front desk and showed him into Bart’s office.

“What took you so long?” Bart was sitting at his desk, making notes on a document of some kind. He barely looked up.

“You ever try to park a Freightliner?” Hunter didn’t bother sitting down. “Are you looking into Klimmer and Michaels or not?”

“Give me a break. It takes time to find someone who’ll do a database search.” When Bart looked up, he was grinning like the Cheshire cat. “Got some news for you,” he said.

Hunter raised his eyebrows.

“Had a call this morning from a fellow named Jimmy Moses. He wants to turn himself in, was wondering if he could go to the detachment in Surrey, save himself the cost of a drive north.”

“Orville’s stepson?”

“It looks that way. He needs someone to look after his things first, he says. He’s got a motorcycle he doesn’t want to lose.”

“How did he hear about Orville?”

“Your biking Viking friend, evidently.”

“Way to go, Dan.” Sorry might not display a lot of finesse, but he could still manage to get the job done. Sometimes. The thought made Hunter smile. “Have you told Orville yet?”

“No.” He shot Hunter an amused glance. “And, yes, you can go talk to Orville.”

Hunter rolled his eyes. “There you go, reading my mind again. When are you going to turn in your badge and get your shaman’s license?”

“I’ve already got it, and if you can do two things at once, so can I.” As Hunter headed out the door, Bart added, “And I called your witness at her hotel. She’ll be standing by this morning until she leaves for the airport in case she’s needed.”

Orville looked none the worse for being back in jail. He still had a twinkle in his eye and a smile on his face when he was shown in to the room. His first question was, “How’s Betty? Have you heard from her granddaughter?”

Hunter was sorry to disappoint him, but not sorry to say what he’d come to say. “Jimmy’s going to turn himself in.”

Orville’s face fell. “Oh, dear. I was desperately hoping it wasn’t him. What’s next?”

“They’ll bring him here.” He smiled sympathetically. “You won’t be able to see him.”

Orville stared down at his hands. His thick fingers were calloused, but the nails neatly trimmed and clean. “How can I help him?”

“He needs a lawyer. Now, before he says something he shouldn’t.”

The old man shook his head sadly. “He won’t trust a lawyer, believe me. I’m afraid for him. He’ll be his own worst enemy in this, the way he always fights authority.”

“I know a good lawyer, one that he’ll feel comfortable with.”

“How do you know? You don’t even know Jimmy.”

“I don’t know Jimmy, but I know my friend. His name is Joe Solomon, and he’s known around the east side of Vancouver as Legal Joe. If anyone can help Jimmy out of this, it’s Legal Joe.”

Orville looked puzzled. Hunter felt he could almost read the old man’s mind.

“I’m a truck driver, not a law enforcement officer. I used to be a member of the RCMP, and Staff Sergeant Sam has been good enough to let me talk to you, but I am not speaking on his behalf, or on behalf of the force.”

“I see, I think.” The old man didn’t sound so sure.

“I don’t know what happened in the Lost Mine parking lot, but I know you, Orville. I’d like to see you keep out of prison, and if you truly believe that Jimmy is innocent of premeditated murder, I’d like to see him get a light sentence, for your sake, if not for his.”

Orville frowned and shook his head. “This Legal Joe, why would you think Jimmy’s going to trust him? The only people Jimmy really seems to feel comfortable with are bikers.”

Hunter smiled. “I’ll send my biker friend back to see him, then, before he turns himself in.”

“Look what the cat dragged in.” Elspeth Watson hung up the phone and threw down her pen. “You’ve got your nerve, Sorenson, coming in here after leaving my driver in the lurch up north last week.”

Sorry flipped her a bird. He was standing at the front counter, eyeing the empty pizza box on her desk. “Hold your tongue, woman! Here I was all set to buy you lunch and you treat me like this.”

“You? Buy me lunch?” She depressed the intercom button and hollered, “Wally! Look outside, will ya. See any flying pigs?” She hoisted herself out of her big captain’s chair, stretched her back and shoulders, and walked over to the counter opposite Sorenson. “What are you doing here, anyway? Come to apologize, I hope.”

He stroked his moustache. “Nope. I was making a delivery just down the road here and I’m hungry so I decided to go to Edna’s for lunch. Wanna come?”

The door from the warehouse opened and Wally stuck his head around. “Huh? Flying Pigs? Is that a new trucking company or something?”

El waved him away and turned back to the biker, who was picking his teeth with one of her business cards from the little plastic cardholder she kept on the front counter. “Already ate,” she told him. “As if you didn’t know that.”

“So let me use your phone, then,” he said.

She rolled her eyes. “Why? You got a phone on your belt there.”

“I can’t make personal calls on it, at least, not my first week on the job.”

“Another new job?”

He didn’t answer. “I need to talk to Hunter Rayne. Can you get him for me?”

She shook her head. “Not unless it’s on Watson Transportation business.”

“It’s important. He’s been looking for this guy and I’ve got to tell Hunter that I found him.”

El took a deep breath and glared at him. “No fuckin’ way. Your friend has been spending way too much time looking for whoever he’s looking for and not taking care of business. I tried to call him half a dozen times over the past two days and he doesn’t even answer his goddamn phone. I had a load for him out of Fort St. John and because he was busy running around on one of his investigations, we lost it and – I –am – pissed – off! I wasted more than half a day trying to find the load, and had to offer the shipper a sweet deal on it, then the asshole never even called me back.” She punctuated the last phrase by slamming her fist three times on the counter.