Free Sundown on Top of the World: A Hunter Rayne Highway Mystery by R.E. Donald Page B

would have to be shipped, so Hunter’s Freightliner wasn’t going anywhere for at least three days. Hunter called El. Even on a Sunday she was in her office catching up on paperwork and chewing the fat with any drivers who happened by. Her work was her life. Hunter understood her. Days without work could bring you face to face with yourself. They could feel as empty as an abandoned warehouse and leave you examining the crumpled scraps of yesterday that littered the cold concrete floor.
    “Damn it, Hunter. Don’t screw up this account for me. Hold on, would ya.” He heard some yapping and rustling, then from a distance but still loud, “Pete! Get back here you little shit. Come. Sit.” Hunter couldn’t help but smile, imagining El’s little black dog, Peterbilt, blissfully unabashed, with his pink tongue hanging out and his dark eyes glittering with mischief. When El was back on the line, she said, “You’ve got a few days yet before the deadline. How far is it to Fairbanks from where you are?”
    “About six hundred miles. I’d say twelve hours or so once we’re on the road.”
    “Good thing you’ve got Sorenson on board. You won’t have an hours-of-service stop before you get there. Then again, he’s probably the one who fucked up your truck.”
    “I’ve thought of that, but it was probably just a matter of time. Wear and tear.”
    “Or it could just be some kind of Alaska Highway curse. I haven’t sent many loads that far north, but it seems to me every time, there’s some kind of mechanical on the trip.” She sighed. “Call me when you’re back on the road, sweet cheeks.” She hung up before he could reply.
    The trailer was tucked in beside the building, secured with a pin lock. “It’ll be fine there,” said the mechanic, who also happened to own the shop. “I live just out back.”
    Sorry came back from the convenience store at the Petro Canada, munching on a prefab sandwich and carrying a coffee. “Good thing we got spare wheels,” he said, pointing to the trailer. “Open up the back and let’s wheel ‘er out so we can go somewhere good to eat.”
    “Somewhere nearby where I can rent a car?” Hunter asked the mechanic.
    The man shrugged. “Airport?”
    “What for, man?” said Sorry, sounding aggrieved. “Let’s just use my bike.”
    Hunter made a face.
    “What?”
    “I don’t relish the thought of snuggling up behind you every time we want to go somewhere. Besides, I don’t have a helmet.”
    “Fuck the helmet.” Sorry turned to the mechanic. “The cops stop you without a helmet up here?”
    “’Fraid so,” the man threw over his shoulder as he walked back to his shop. “If they catch you. See you in a few days.”
    Hunter opened the back doors of the trailer and hooked in a ramp so they could wheel Sorry’s Harley out. He was relieved to see that the straps and dunnage had held it firmly so there was no visible damage to the bike. At least something had gone right.
    A few minutes later, duffel bags roped securely behind him, he was seated behind Sorry as the bike roared down the highway into Whitehorse. The wind ballooned his jacket and whistled past his ears, but it felt seductively free to be bareheaded and unbelted at that speed. He only wished he had control of the brakes and throttle himself, as being a passenger made him feel disturbingly vulnerable.
    He tapped Sorry on the shoulder and pointed when it was time to veer right off the highway, and they ended up cruising down 2nd Avenue into the heart of town. The early birds out on the street turned their heads at the sound of the Harley, no doubt concerned or at least curious about the arrival of an outlaw biker from the south. By this time they were at a speed that allowed Hunter to relax, but it was still a relief when Sorry finally slowed to a stop in front of a Tim Horton’s, one of the few places open at that time of day, which was just before seven-thirty.
    “Now what?” Sorry sipped at his coffee,