CHAPTER 39
It was just after ten when Gallen and Winter pulled in to the Higgins family farm. The front door of the ranch house opened, spilling yellow light onto the porch before Gallen’s boots hit the gravel.
‘Keep him on the leash, Billy,’ said Gallen. ‘It’s me. Gerry.’
Behind the screen door, a large German shepherd called Zane barked into the night.
‘You comin’ in?’ said Higgins, thick woollen socks on his feet and holding a can of Bud. ‘Major Dundee just started.’
‘Nah, Billy,’ said Gallen, walking towards the porch. ‘Emergency. Gotta take a horse to Oklahoma first thing in the morning and the fricking gooseneck is cracked.’
‘Take the Dodge,’ said Higgins, belching.
‘I’ll leave you the Ford. She’s running, just don’t use the gooseneck.’
The dog stopped barking. ‘When you back, Ger?’
‘A week,’ said Gallen. ‘That a problem?’
‘Nah, we’re sweet,’ said Higgins, heading back inside. ‘Key’s under the seat.’
They made good time north and at Billings they stopped at a drive-through ATM where Gallen withdrew six thousand in cash from his corporate MasterCard. He was going to need money but didn’t want to be on the grid, didn’t want to leave any electronic paper trails. Across the road from the ATM was an all-night convenience store where he bought two pre-paid Nokia phones that would fit the car charger in the Dodge. Then he bought ten fifty-dollar Verizon top-up cards, registered the whole lot in the name of Roland Smith from BC.
They avoided the I-90 and stuck to the big white signs that signalled Montana 3, the state highway that took traffic north into Alberta. The big Dodge Ram purred along, its diesel thirsty but smooth, the phones charging as they drove. Gallen felt relatively safe travelling across Montana in a borrowed truck. In his world, a local sheriff or highway patrolman knew how the rednecks swapped vehicles, but he was hoping that it would take a suit from the government longer to get it.
Pulling into the Shelby trucker’s roadhouse at 5.41 am, they parked in the rear among the semis and took a seat in the diner back from the window. Sipping coffee and eating eggs with biscuit as the sun touched the mountains, Gallen decided he’d sobered up enough to take a driving stint. The next stretch of road joined with the famous I-15 North, the CANAMEX highway that connected Mexico to Alberta.
‘Don’t matter if they’re Agency, Pentagon or NSA,’ said Winter, mulling over the Spanish bar crew who were now at the Gallen farm. ‘They’re from Washington and we still have a border crossing, right?’
Around them truck drivers watched the morning TV news and slapped down their money for a hot shower.
‘There’s not a lot we can do about that,’ said Gallen. ‘If the CIA or the Pentagon really wants to talk, they’ll come and talk.’
‘How you want to play it?’
Gallen had a good idea what Winter was talking about but he didn’t want to do it that way. ‘Kenny, I’d as soon talk our way through this,’ he said, eyeing the sign that offered towels and showers. ‘We haven’t broken the law yet.’
‘Just so you know,’ said Winter.
‘Yeah, I know,’ said Gallen, slapping his pockets for change as he made for the towels. ‘We’ll do it easy, okay? Right now I need a shower.’
The line crawled through the US side of the border crossing while the trucks got the express treatment in the other lanes. Peering through the top of the windscreen, Gallen pulled down the peak of his cap as he saw the arrays of cameras that automatically scanned the passing parade. It wasn’t the licence plate that concerned him — it was his face being captured and run through the intel databases operated by the US Government.
The Americans waved them through and Gallen let the Dodge idle to the Canadian side where a young woman in a dark CBSA parka gestured them to an inspection lane.
‘Shit,’ said Winter under his breath.
Parking the Dodge in the inspection bay, Gallen switched off. ‘Just relax, Kenny.’
The woman was tall and athletic, pretty too. They watched her walk to the front of the Dodge and scan the licence plate with a hand-held attached to an iPad device, before arriving at Gallen’s open window.
‘Good morning, sir,’ she said with a smile, her lanyard identifying her as Officer Langtry. ‘American?’
‘Yes, ma’am,’ said Gallen, handing over his passport.
She scanned that too and Gallen killed the radio as ‘Hot Child in the City’ ramped up.
‘So, Mr Gallen,’ she said, looking into his eyes. ‘I see you’ve renewed your passport?’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘Military passports with no orders — that’s not a good mix.’
‘No, ma’am.’
‘Anything to declare this morning?’
‘No, ma’am.’
‘Any firearms, explosives, alcohol, tobacco?’
‘No, ma’am, ‘cept a couple packs of Marlboros.’
‘No cash in excess of ten thousand Canadian dollars?’
‘No, ma’am.’
‘You carrying any blood samples, any used veterinary equipment?’
‘No, ma’am.’
‘You currently under criminal indictment in the United States?’
‘No, ma’am.’
‘Parole or suspended sentence?’
‘Nope.’
‘This your truck?’
‘No, ma’am.’
‘Those your mineral blocks in the back?’
Gallen craned his head but couldn’t see the supplies in the tray of the Dodge. ‘No, ma’am.’
Officer Langtry looked past him to Winter. ‘And this would be Mr William Higgins?’
Gallen craved a smoke but didn’t want to light up. ‘No, ma’am.’
Moving to the other side of the truck, Langtry scanned Winter’s passport but paid particular attention to his face.
‘Kenny Winter?’ she said. ‘Not Kenny Winter, defenceman for the Hurricanes?’
Winter smiled. ‘Yes, ma’am, but don’t hold it against me.’
‘I don’t,’ said Officer Langtry, beaming. ‘Lethbridge is our team. We’re all ‘Canes fans down here.’
‘Glad to hear it. Thought I was non grata?’
‘Forget that crap,’ she said, waving it away. ‘Those animals from Spokane been getting away with it for years. You just gave a little back is all.’
Walking back to Gallen, Langtry leaned on the door. ‘So, you’re not William Higgins but you’re in his truck? ‘
‘My gooseneck is broken so I borrowed Billy’s.’
‘You’re not towing, sir.’
‘I’m looking for horses, at the auctions,’ said Gallen. ‘If anything’s worth buying, we’ll hire a trailer.’
‘Looking for horses?’
‘We’re trainers. Roy Gallen’s my father.’
Langtry Googled him on her iPad. ‘Sweet Clover, huh? Roy Gallen and family — stock contractor for the rodeo, trainer of ropers and cutting horses.’
‘That’s him.’
‘Which auctions?’
Gallen hesitated. ‘Up Stettler and Big Valley. Maybe try Leduc, around there.’
‘Stettler’s a meat auction,’ said Langtry.
‘Only if they go for meat,’ said Gallen. ‘Otherwise they’re a cheap roping horse.’
Langtry’s face softened. ‘You do that?’
‘He does,’ said Gallen, pointing at Winter. ‘You wouldn’t believe how many hundred-thousand-dollar roping horses were bought at meat auctions.’
She looked back at the customs office, where faces peered out of the plate glass in the early morning light. Then she scribbled something on a sheet of paper, tore it off.
‘Okay,’ she said, lowering her voice as she handed back Gallen’s passport. ‘Next time, bring a signed declaration that this vehicle is in authorised third-party use. Have a nice day, sir.’