Free The Wild Ways by Tanya Huff Page B

noticed it before, but piled on the backseat of his car, tucked into suit bags that made fine camouflage but terrible filters, the scent was unmistakable. Technically, he supposed they smelled like the ocean, like brine and kelp rotting on the shore, but the signature, the grace note, was definitely fish. And not fish the way he preferred it, filleted almost transparent and lying on a bed of sticky rice next to a serving of sake; this was fish the way he remembered it from meeting his dad at the docks and nearly gagging on the stink rising off glistening piles of guts speckled silver with scales. It stank of barely getting by and wearing his cousin’s hand-me-downs and being expected to never achieve his full potential because if kids like him went to work for Carlson Oil, it sure as hell wasn’t in the office.
    The odor anchored the skins in a pungent reality that removed any lingering disbelief. Why worry about the hard left his worldview had recently taken when his time could be better spent worrying about getting the smell of the docks out of his car. It was the first new car he’d ever owned and he really didn’t want the past he’d worked so hard to shake to take up residence in the upholstery.
    He cranked up the air-conditioning another notch and thought about how he’d never have been expected to transport sealskins while working in Toronto. He’d been thrilled when Ms. Carlson had gone from VP to CEO and wanted him to remain with her, but he’d been significantly less thrilled about returning to the Maritimes and his family’s incessant: “Why don’t you drop by, Paul.” “We never see you, Paul.” And the ever popular: “Well, if you’re not gay, what’s wrong with meeting Mrs. Harris’ daughter for lunch? You’re not getting any younger and your grandmother, who’d like to see you settled before she goes, won’t live forever.”
    His grandmother had every intention of living forever.
    He’d nearly cheered when Ms. Carlson had decided it would be good public relations to temporarily relocate to the Sydney office. It wasn’t out of the province, but at least it was out of Halifax.
    “You have reached your destination.”
    The voice of his GPS was bland, generic North American; entirely unremarkable for a businessman using a tool. He’d downloaded the Darth Vader program but never installed it, well aware it would give the wrong impression should Ms. Carlson ever need to ride in his car. She hadn’t needed to in the two years, four months, and twenty-seven days he’d worked for her, but that didn’t mean she never would.
    Dewie Center Self-Storage consisted of long, beige rectangular buildings with red roofs and doors, bordered by just enough asphalt to get trucks in and out. Paul had already stopped by the office—shared with the local U-Haul rental—to sign the papers and pick up the key. Fake name, fake address, paid in cash.
    The middle-aged man behind the counter had looked down at the money and up at Paul. “You hiding a body?”
    Paul had looked down at the man’s left hand and the tan line on the empty ring finger, did the math, and said, “No. Just hiding some stuff from my ex-wife.”
    There’d been no further questions.
    Forty square feet of storage had seemed like a lot when he’d rented it, but Paul had no idea how many pelts Ms. Carlson would eventually need him to store, and moving pelts between units if the space he’d provided turned out to be too small would only attract attention. They didn’t need any more of that. In spite of everything they’d done over the last year to keep the permit process out of the news, Two Seventy-five N had shone the bright light of public opinion on Carlson Oil. Even years later, BP’s adventure in the Gulf of Mexico continued ramping the reaction to maritime wells up to hysterical levels.
    Stacked against the back wall, the three bulging black suit bags that had so dominated the backseat of his car looked slightly pathetic,