After the Rain

“So,” she said, “does your boss know what you’re doing, Yeager?”

“Let’s say I’m staying flexible,” Yeager said.

“He’s flying by the seat of his pants, like you,” Broker said.

“Anybody ever check out that Indian guy?” Nina asked.

“I called the BIA police at Turtle Mountain,” Yeager said. “They got a Joe Reed on the tribal roll. But nobody’s been in contact with him for two years, since he went up to work the oil fields in Alberta. Story is he got burned in an oil-rig fire.”

Nina shook her head. “Those scars on him are a lot more than two years old.”

“You got a point,” Yeager said.

“So now what?” she said.

Broker toed the ground. “We wait.”

Chapter Twenty-seven

Dale ran the tape over and over until the light in the small basement windows went from gray to black and then he watched it one more time in the dark.

Then he went upstairs and microwaved one of Mom’s frozen suppers. Lasagna. A favorite. After his meal, he stacked his dirty plate in the sink, went into the garage, and took his bike off the hooks on the wall.

It had been a while since he’d been on a bike, but his plan for tonight made it necessary. He rode a little shakily through town and took a side street that paralleled the highway, following a round-about route to the Missile Park. Just as he was approaching the intersection with State 5, he saw Ace’s Tahoe going east, toward town. He strained his eyes to see if she was in there with him, but the light was already too faint and he couldn’t tell.

He continued on around back of the bar and saw Gordy’s Ford F-150, then Gordy, girded in his back brace, standing in a cone of light and swarming bugs under the utility bulb over the loading dock door. Gordy spotted him, eased off trundling the four cases of whiskey on his dolly, and laughed.

“What’s so funny?” Dale said.

“You on a bike.” Gordy squinted. “Where’s your car?”

Dale shrugged as he got off the bike, dropped the kickstand, and parked it next to the truck. “Little exercise can’t hurt.”

“You shoulda thought of that starting about ten years ago,” Gordy said.

Dale gave him the finger, looked around. “So where’d Ace go just now?”

Gordy grinned. “Working, for a change.”

“Where’s the woman?”

“Gone. He kicked her out.”

Dale shook his head. Uh-uh. That can’t be. He fidgeted from foot to foot. Not part of his plan. She was supposed to still be here. “Maybe he took her along,” he said hopefully as he trudged up the steps to the dock. The woman had to be there at the end of the night; without her, it was gonna be a long couple days of terrible work. No play. Damn.

“Don’t think so.” Gordy paused, yanked a red bandana from his hip pocket, and mopped sweat from his forehead. “We had this bet. I got a hundred says she’s a cop. At first Ace wasn’t sure. But don’tcha know it, I was right.”

Dale shook his head, struggling to disguise his disappointment. “How did you find out?”

“It’s not like she told me, man. All I know is she’s gone.”

She’d be back, Dale was sure. He changed the subject. “So what are you sending to Canada tonight?”

“The last forty cases in the basement, most of it Jack Daniels. I appreciate the help, but I figured you got more than being a helping hand on your mind.”

Dale took the dolly from Gordy, went into the storeroom, worked the dolly under a stack of cases, tipped the cases back, and wheeled them outside. “Well,” he said, “I did talk to Ace, and he ain’t real pleased about the meth traffic. Especially if there’s cops snooping around. Maybe you could hold off till we’re outta here.”

“For sure. The guys up north say there’s some kind of squeeze going on. And Ace says I got to be extra careful tonight. Play some hide-and-seek, keep the lights out,” Gordy said.

Dale forced a grin. “Like in high school, drinking beer. Dodging the sheriff.” He wheeled the load into the truck and eased it off the dolly.

They worked in silence as they finished up the load. Gordy pulled a tarp and a cargo net over the cases, fastened it down, and then they sat on the loading dock and waited as the real dark inked over the fields. Dale watched the lights come on brighter in town, peered at every car that went by.

“So, they could be watching us?” he said.

“Yeah, and they could be anybody-deputies, state guys, who knows? But we’ll lose them in the dark.” He cuffed Dale on the shoulder. “Be fun, huh?”

“Yeah,” Dale said, trying to cover how bummed he was inside. What if she was really gone? He had trouble seeing his way through what lay ahead without taking her along.

The traffic quieted down, and after nothing went by for fifteen minutes, Gordy decided it was time to go. “It ain’t like we’re breaking any laws,” he said. “Just unloading this stuff in Phil Lute’s old garage, on the U.S. side.”

Dale insisted on taking his bike, so he hooked it in the back of the truck, in the webbing of the net. Then they drove slowly across the highway and headed north until the lights of the town receded and they were the only set of beams poking through the fields.

The way ahead was all black except for two faint farmyard lights. Gordy aimed at the solid blackness between them. When his tires left the asphalt and hit gravel he pulled over, killed his headlights, and parked. The smell of damp, ripening wheat and canola rolled in through the open windows.

“Fuckin’ mosquitoes,” Gordy said, swatting his cheek. He leaned over, popped the glove compartment, took out a can of insect spray, and gassed the interior of the cab.

Dale held his breath and didn’t protest. He’d grown up with this, sitting by his dad. They needed to keep the windows open to listen.

They waited and listened for half an hour. When nothing unusual happened, Gordy eased the truck over the gravel road-no lights, methodically working off tenths of miles on his odometer. Then he finally turned and followed the skeletal gravel trace of a prairie road into the wheat. He had whole sections of the road grid memorized, and he counted as he drove-“…eight-one-thousand, nine-one-thousand, bang. There it is, right up there.”

Dale got out and helped Gordy back up. He could just make out the mass of Lute’s swayback garage, backlit by a trickle of moonlight-all that remained of the old farmstead. They were sitting in the middle of a field, within fifty yards of the border. The Canadian pickup crew would creep down from the north along the same prairie road and load the booze later that night.

Gordy came around from the cab and dropped his tailgate, then suddenly hissed,” Don’t move…freeze.” But Dale was already still, motionless. He saw the headlights knife the dark. But a good two miles away.

“Cops?” Dale said.

“Don’t know.” They waited until the lights went out. Then, ten minutes later, the lights came on again, this time headed back toward town.

“Probably somebody just shopping in Canada,” Gordy said. He opened the garage door.

Dale took a step inside, feeling his way, and knocked into a pile of light cardboard boxes. “Hey, what’s this?”

Gordy flashed a tiny pencil light. “Boxes,” he said.

Unmarked boxes. Dale hefted one. Light. A rattle of cellophane and tinfoil.

“Okay. So it’s cold medicine. Ephedra,” Gordy said. “C’mon, ten measly boxes.”

“This could get us all sent to jail.”

“Get off it. Everybody from here on down through Montana to Idaho is cooking meth. Home brew, private use. A few boxes. C’mon, it’ll just take me a minute to stash it.”

“Where you gonna put it?”