‘I’m no hero, Gerry,’ said Aaron, finishing his beer. ‘I just reacted.’
Gallen smiled. That was what the really brave ones said.
When he got to the airport the next morning, Gallen checked for eyes in the terminal and then checked his bank account at an ATM, confirming payment of the leave bonus he’d been promised.
Buying his ticket to Cheyenne on the Oasis MasterCard, he rang ahead and hired a Chev Equinox for a week. He made sure the basics were in the Oasis name so he could save his cash for more interesting things. Because the one thing Gallen hadn’t mentioned to the RCMP investigators was the beacon planted in Donny McCann’s watch. Aaron may have wanted him back at the farm, but Gallen had a stopover planned before he got there.
CHAPTER 35
The East Side Motel on Highway 220 looked half full as Gallen pulled into the reception drive-through at 7.13 pm. The drive up from Cheyenne Airport to Red Butte had been easy if you discounted the aching ankle and the burns that he wanted to scratch.
Paying in cash and checking in as Roland Smith, Gallen showed a British Columbia driver’s licence he’d claimed at the bar at Calgary Airport. There were three lost licences jammed in the mirror behind the cocktail station, and he’d been close enough to read the name and see the real owner had dark hair.
Taking a large room on the second floor — two along from where he’d stayed during Tyler Richards’ fundraiser — he looked down on the internal courtyard and waited to see if the manager would double-check the false vehicle rego he’d listed on the guest information form.
Sipping on a beer from the minibar, Gallen cased the motel, looking for surveillance, looking for a tail. It looked clear and, finishing the beer, he went down to the business centre, a small room with a table, a computer and a scanner-printer. Creating an iGoogle account under the name Igor Olafnowsky, he accessed his new account and Googled the story on Harry Durville’s death. The Calgary Herald had the best photo spread and when he’d found Donny’s USMC picture, he printed it and switched off the computer tower, in contravention of the sign that said: Do Not Turn Off This Computer!!!
Gallen got to the motel’s restaurant a little after eight o’clock, and taking a corner booth saw a face he recognised.
‘Hi,’ said the girl with the biker rings as she dumped a menu in front of him and poured a glass of water. ‘Soup of the day’s minestrone. Chef’s special is barbecue pork ribs with ranch fries and beans.’
‘I’ll take ‘em both,’ said Gallen with a smile, not touching the menu. ‘And in the same order. A handle of Miller too, thanks.’
The waitress returned his smile, having just been introduced to the easiest table of the week.
‘Your leg okay? Need a cushion or sumpin?’
‘I’m fine,’ said Gallen, winking. ‘It only hurts when I run.’
‘You were here a couple weeks ago, right?’ she said. ‘Marines get-together?’
Gallen saw her name tag, saw a figure that was holding together for someone north of thirty. ‘Fundraiser, actually, Glenda, for an old brother in a wheelchair.’
‘Oh no,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘I hate that, hate this fucking war.’
‘There’s nothing to love.’ Gallen nodded. ‘But those of us over there, we do our best.’
‘No, no,’ said Glenda, embarrassed. ‘Not the guys. Not the guys. You know what I mean — the oil people: Cheney, Halliburton, the Bush family. All those shitheads wouldn’t know a yellow ribbon if it ate them in the crotch.’
Gallen laughed as she stalked off, wondering if she knew there’d been a new president in the White House for two years.
The tab came to $34.85 and Gallen left five tens on the table. ‘Keep it,’ he said as Glenda scooped up the notes.
‘You from around here?’
‘Down from Clearmont. I was actually trying to find what happened to my buddy.’
‘Who?’
Gallen shrugged. ‘Old Marines buddy who was here for that fundraiser.’
‘Perhaps I can help?’ said Glenda, putting her weight on her left hip. ‘I’m outa here at ten-thirty.’
‘Great,’ said Gallen. ‘The name’s Roly, by the way.’
They sat on stools at a roadhouse bar, watching bikers and cowboys shooting pool around a red baize table. The juke box seemed to have nothing but Jennings, Cash and Haggard, and Gallen let his strapped leg swing free to the music he’d grown up with.
‘So, she happy now?’ said Glenda, who looked a lot sexier in her jeans and tank top than she did in her waitress dress. ‘This Marcia?’
‘Who knows?’ Gallen sipped at his beer. ‘She wanted more than a Marine, and she got it. End of story.’
‘I think she’s nuts,’ said Glenda, drinking bourbon and Coke.
‘You don’t know me like she knew me.’
She smiled. ‘Well, Roly, we can fix that.’
‘I have to find out what happened to Donny. I feel terrible for his family.’
‘What do you need?’ said Glenda.
‘I’d love to know who he was kicking with when he was staying at the East Side.’
‘Gotta picture?’ she asked, flicking her hair and giving Gallen the eye.
Pulling the printed picture out of his inside pocket, he handed it over. ‘That’s Donny, nineteen years old.’
Her face lit up. ‘Oh, so that’s Donny.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean, I remember this hound,’ she said, grabbing him by the hand. ‘Let’s go.’
Staying seated, Gallen pulled her back and Glenda leaned into him, kissed him on the lips. ‘I have someone you should meet, so let’s go, Marine!’
The house sat on a secondary street, a wood-sided Wyoming house with a brick chimney and a closed-in porch which was a boot room in winter.
Pulling him inside, Glenda left him in a living area where a blonde woman lay on a sofa watching Cops.
‘Beer okay?’ came Glenda’s voice from the kitchen.
‘Beer’s good,’ said Gallen, smiling at the blonde as she sat up and arranged her hair.
‘Hi,’ she said, reaching out her hand. ‘Ellen.’
They shook and Gallen introduced himself once more as Roly.
‘Wanna seat, take the weight off that leg?’
‘Thanks,’ said Gallen, removing magazines and chocolate wrappers and taking a seat beside the woman.
Handing him the Coors as she came into the living room, Glenda sat on the arm of the sofa. ‘Meet my roommate, Ellen,’ she said with a laugh. ‘Donny’s girlfriend for just one night.’
‘Shut up!’ said Ellen, wrapping a cardigan around her breasts.
‘Roly’s trying to find out what happened to Donny. Remember Donny, from that Marines night down at the East Side?’
Ellen lit a cigarette, grabbed Glenda’s beer and took a slug. ‘Well, the first place I’d look would be in the morgue up there in polar bear land. What the fuck they call that Indian reservation? ‘
‘Nunavut,’ said Gallen. ‘I know he’s in a morgue. I’m trying to work out who put him there.’
‘Donny’s dead?’ said Glenda, shocked.
Ellen looked at her. ‘Don’t you watch the news? He was killed in that plane crash where the oil billionaire died — whatsisname, Durban or Durville or sumpin?’
Gallen focused on Ellen. ‘You knew Donny? ‘
‘I did that night,’ said Ellen, not so cocky. ‘We were fooling around, you know?’
‘Yeah,’ said Gallen, remembering Donny partying in his Cutlass. ‘You were fooling around in a red Oldsmobile.’