Prelude: Jamie Pearce

Even the open road looked uncomfortably enclosed.

Jamie was eastbound on a long, winding stretch of Crowsnest Highway, corralled by orderly rows of spruce trees. An overcast sky looked more like a sagging gray blanket slung over the snow-limned mountains, the tops of which disappeared into the lowest clouds. Every breath was labored, the air heavy with humidity.

But at least he was moving.

Kelowna was nice while it lasted, but it was never going to be a long-term arrangement. Even staying as long as he did, Jamie had broken with tradition: eat, refuel, sleep, drive. Exiting toward a mountain town -- Fernie -- that pattern was everything on his mind.

Eat, refuel, sleep, drive.

Just a mile off the highway, Jamie rode past a stadium, its parking lot half-filled with cars. "Fernie Memorial Arena, Home of the Ghostriders," the signs proudly proclaimed. Fernie was hardly a bustling community, home to only a few thousand souls in a remote part of the Canadian Rockies, so the locals mostly made their livings off of ski tourism and stayed busy with their junior "B" hockey team.

Coming to the city center, Jamie found it hard not to feel like he'd slipped backward in time. Narrow streets with stops at every corner were attended by brownstone buildings filled mostly with restaurants.

Coffee shops... pizzerias... a bar and grill... a bakery... a steakhouse... another bar and grill... a diner... Mexican... Japanese... Indian... well, now was as good a time as any to make dinner plans....

Something simple is all his is looking for, so he picks a bar and grill at random and pulls to a stop in front of it. He turns the engine off, opens the stand, leans the bike over and climbs off, removing his helmet, checking the locks on the saddle bags and looking again without the heavy viser at the neighbourhood. He locks down the bike and enters the diner, helmet in hand. He finds an empty booth and slides in, his helmet and jacket now on the seat beside him. He takes the menu in hand and looks over the selection, almost invariably the same as the last diner. We waits. It's what he does best these days really.

Jamie was followed in by a family and a few stragglers. The place -- Bulldog's -- was set up like a sports bar, with strategically positioned TVs all tuned to the local access channel and playing the Ghostriders game.

A mousy-haired, smiling waitress approached, her uniform gray and red in support of the home team. She handed Jamie a printed menu of specials (none of which were very unique, either), and set down a glass of water on a thin cork coaster. "Good evening! Can I start you with something to drink?"

Jamie shifted a little in his seat, away from the waitress, ordering the club sandwich with a bud. "Thanks." handing back the specials menu.

"Of course," she replied with a smile and nod. The waitress hurried to check in with another table, and a few locals at the bar made an excited clamor as the Ghostriders nearly scored.

A minute or two later, the waitress -- Caroline, by her nametag -- brought Jamie his beer. "The lady at the bar said she'll pick up your check," she commented. "Just let me know when you need anything else. Your food will be ready soon." She was quick to move on, giving Jamie an unobstructed view of the woman who'd offered to pick up his tab.

She was easy to spot, looking right at him: pale and sharply featured, her spiked hair highlighted blonde, conservatively dressed in a charcoal-colored pantsuit. She gestured to him with her beer as if to toast him before turning her attention back to the game.

Jamie smiled a thank you, but internally cursed that this was always happening to him. Why can't they just let me eat is peace? He joked to himself in his internal dialogue.

The woman at the bar left Jamie to his own devices, keeping a disinterested eye on the game and occupying herself with her phone, savoring her beer a sip at a time.

Caroline brought Jamie his sandwich in hardly any time at all. "Another beer? Or anything else?" she inquired with a smile. Behind her, the woman at the bar furtively glanced his way again.

"No thank you," he says.

Jamie finished his sandwich just after the game had crossed into second period. The Ghostriders led 1-0, and the setting sun began to usher in a few more bar patrons in team colors (and send home the families with young children). Caroline brought him another beer, this time without drawing a second glance from the woman at the bar.

Jamie picks up the beer and takes it over to the woman at the bar. "Thank you, but I am riding on right now, and one beer is the limit." He puts the beer down on the counter and returns to his meal, finishing the last few bites of pickle. He signals for the bill.

The woman barely glanced up from her phone as Jamie put the beer in front of her. "Safety first," she said with a smirk.

After he signaled for the check, she stood, pushed the full beer toward a nearby sports fan, and approached Jamie's table. "You're covered. I thought she told you," she said in a dry alto. Jamie's eyes flitted to the television behind her as it blurred in a blink of static.

"I'm Kate." She offered a handshake.

[Can the automatic font or background be altered here?]
"Kate," he says, shaking the proffered hand, "Jamie, Jamie Pearce. Thank you."

"You're welcome, Jamie. You're just passing through?"

(Sure. More contrast?)

[Gray on gray just doesn't work for me, sorry.]

"I am Kate, just passing through on my way to ... somewhere."

"And, let me guess," she said dryly, "you haven't decided where you'll land yet."

(Better? More contrast needed?)

[Thanks, that's better.]
"My goal is Terrea del Fuego."

"Hell of a drive," she quipped. "And, if I recognize your type, you'll stay until it bores you or you get uncomfortable." Kate paused, locking eyes with him -- there was no warmth in it; she was looking for signs that she was right. The TV flashed static again.

"What do you do, Jamie? Other than vault the Panama Canal on a motorcycle."

How do I get out of this conversation? Jamie thinks in his interior monologue. "I am a mechanic Kate, it's a good transferable skill."

"Well, Jamie, I think you've got a lot of untapped potential. You can do better than scrape by tuning up cop cars in Kelowna. Or wherever the hell you plan to go." She puts a couple of bills on the table for Caroline's tip.

"Whoa there, how did you know that? Are you some kind of federal agent keeping tabs on renegade bikers? Look," Jamie started collecting his helmet and jacket, "I didn't do it. Whatever you think I did, it was some other Alaskan biker mechanic. Thanks for the meal and beer, but this is outside my comfort zone."

Kate grinned and coughed a small laugh at the federal agent line. "You're not in trouble. I've got a dossier on you, but for very different reasons." She held the door for Jamie on the way to his bike.

"I represent a research firm that specializes in some cutting-edge technology. A lot of it is information-based, really revolutionary. After all, I found you, and you're pretty far off the fucking grid, Jamie."

She smirked. "Here." She reached into her jacket pocket, drawing out an envelope. "Orpheus Group is prepared to make you an offer. There's a ticket in here that'll get you to O'Hare Airport in Chicago. They plan a little trip, set up an orientation and evaluation period, make sure you're cut out for what we do -- a week of your time is worth ten thousand dollars. If you don't like it, then or now, you can walk away. And you'll be a few hundred miles further south for your trouble.

"If you sign on, you'll get to travel -- maybe even to track down and creep out elusive Alaskan biker mechanics -- you'll earn a sound upper-middle class salary, you'll receive full premium medical coverage and can opt into additional benefits packages, personal trainers in anything you want, massages, spa getaway weekends, and all that." She offered him the envelope.

Jamie stands flummuxed, starting to say something, stopping, turning his head to the side, trying again. "Okay," he eyes the envelope. "Because this type of thing happens to me everyday, you see Kate. Everywhre I go, 'oh hey, you're the next dali lama', or 'hey, aren't you Elvis?', or 'hey, here's your ticket to fame, fortune and travel'. And, all I can think of to say in return is what's the catch? What's the catch Kate?"

"Let's see," Kate mused aloud, lowering the envelope. "What wouldn't Jamie like... well, you'd have to train at our central office, and report there from time to time between investigations, so it does tie you down a little. Debriefings are a pain in the ass, but on the bright side, someone on your team might bring bagels and coffee.

"The catch is that it's a job. A corporate one, sometimes with shitty hours. I'm not giving a free snake oil sample, I'm making a referral. I probably get a recruitment bonus out of it." Her smirk broadened, and she pointed the envelope at him. "Promise me you'll think about it."

"Sure thing Kate," Jamie takes the envelope, opens a saddle bag and places it inside. "If I don't see you in Chicago, look me up in southern Argentina next time your in town, right, I'll buy you a sangrea." He dons his helmet and mounts up.

"Sounds good." Kate turned to head down the sidewalk. "Take care of yourself."

Jamie put up the kickstand and started his bike... or at least attempted to. The engine refused to turn over.