The Bear Mountain Secret

by Gayle Siebert

  “Seems kind of mean,” Kathy says.

  “Oh, mean? They don’t hurt them, you know. They use hooks that don’t have barbs on them and then they let them go.

  Kathy swallows the urge to tell her that of course it hurts them. How would anyone like being dragged around by a hook in their mouth, barbless or otherwise? Every living creature feels pain! But she’s not on a PETA consciousness-raising mission. She’s looking for someone, and The Fisherman’s would have been there when Hank was writing those letters. It might be the kind of place he would have headed for as soon as he got out of camp, eager to start spending his wages.

  “How do I find it?” she asks.

  The desk clerk studies the map again, then circles another spot. “It’s out on the Old Rupert Road down by the bridge. Just continue north on the highway. There’s a sign where you have to turn off.”

  “I’ll check it out.” Kathy reads the clerk’s name badge and says, “Thanks, um, Kiersten!” She takes the map, buoyed by the feeling they’ve made a connection. How nice to find someone so small-town friendly and helpful! It’s encouraging after her experience with the car rental clerk.

  Key card in hand, she heads back outside to park the Sorrento in the assigned spot right outside the door to the room that will be home for a week. It’s the last room at the end. Far enough off the road there won’t be traffic noise.

  The room is clean and tastefully decorated. There’s a separate sitting area with a flat screen TV, a table by the window, and a patio door leading out the back to a walkway that adjoins the pool deck. Being one of the deluxe rooms, it has a private patio enclosed by a fancy block wall on the back and wrought-iron railings on the side and front. It’s inviting, with shady as well as sunny areas, ceramic pots with shrubs and trailing flowers, and a bistro set. At her approach, small birds fly out of holes in the wall. The forest is only meters away, tall trees surrounded by dense underbrush. Branches overhang the patio, dropping needles and cones on everything.

  At the other end of the long building there’s what must be the restaurant, two-storey tall windows on its prow front blazing with reflected sunlight. Inside a fenced area with deck chairs and umbrellas, there’s a pool. Across a stretch of lawn, a river gurgles lazily along. A man on a mower is making his way along the pool fence before he disappears around the back. The afternoon sun gives the patio, the entire area, a warm glow.

  She brushes needles off a chair and sinks into it; leaning back against the wall, she enjoys the scent of newly-mown grass, the late afternoon sunlight warm on her face. The patio is nice. If only Rick was with her! Would it be sensible to cancel this expensive room and get the next flight back to Pillerton? She really is on a fool’s errand. Five thousand people live in Dark River, almost twice as many as Pillerton. How many Hanks could there be now, let alone over the past four decades? Not that many, really, maybe only thousands!

  She wonders what Rick is doing. She gets out her phone and sends him a text to let him know she’s arrived and where she’s staying. Once sent, she quickly sends another: “Miss you already. Love you.” He’s probably at Big Al’s Pub, so it doesn’t hurt to remind him he has a wife, just in case Delores Murray is hovering around.

  It’s not Rick’s fault women are attracted to him. He still has that movie-star grin and a cocky bounce in his step, but he’s not the cock-of-the-walk he was back in high school. Gone is the player who took her home from the dance early so he could go to the afterparty with someone else. The someone else who’s the mother of his only child. But maybe there’s still enough of the old Rick that women pick up on. Or is she just being foolish? Worrying about nothing?

  Rick! She is missing him. She gives herself a mental kick. You didn’t come here to lay around feeling homesick! Get going! Get out to that pub and start doing what you came here to do! Maybe one night is all you’ll need.

  She decides to freshen up, then take a leisurely drive to familiarize herself with the town before searching out The Fisherman’s. It’s bound to have pub grub and may even be an okay place for dinner. If there are no vegan options, there will likely be salad and if all else fails, at least French fries. She won’t ask whether they use lard or vegetable oil in their deep fryer.

  Eight

  Silverface

  HE’S WASHING HIS hands after a satisfying dump when his office phone rings. He debates hurrying to answer it, but instead dries his hands and wipes water spots off the taps with the towel before poking it back into the ring.

  He leaves the bathroom, heads into his office and sits at the desk. Illuminated by only the monitors and a desk lamp, the room is dark, but the phone is in the pond of light on the desk top. No cell service here, it’s a land line and very few people have the number. Fewer still would call so late. He plays the voice message, then picks up the handset and returns the call.

  “What’s up?” he asks. As he listens to the answer, his forehead creases in a frown. Finally he says, “You’re right to call. You don’t need to do anything, but for chrissake keep your mouth shut.”

  He clicks the hang-up button and drops the handset on the desk. Leaning back, he scans the monitors without really seeing them, rocking and swiveling for a moment, wondering what kind of fool would come looking for someone with so little to go on. And for what reason? A good-looking young woman, all on her own. She should count herself lucky the man she seeks is dead.

  He sits up straighter and makes a sound like a low, animal growl. He’s just made the connection: there is that one loose end in the will. The old man said it was unlikely to ever come up, so unlikely that he would probably never have to deal with it. What was the point of including it in his will, then? A little fucking late to start feeling responsible! But the old bastard was stubborn and couldn’t be talked out of it. In fact, it was the only time they argued. Once was more than enough. After that, he pushed it out of his mind and went on believing the five million dollars would be his on the five-year anniversary of his father’s death. That was way off in the future, after all. Or it should have been. Now that anniversary is just a few months away, and this woman chooses now to come crawling out of the woodwork?

  He scratches the nub that’s the last remnant of his ear and runs a palm over the shiny scar tissue where hair no longer grows. The hair on the unscarred part of his scalp is stubbly. Overdue for a shave. Annie is coming tomorrow to deliver his weekly grocery order and do the cleaning. She always stays long enough for a fuck and to cook meals for him to eat through the week. He’ll get her to shave his head. He can do it himself, of course, but she does a better job. And he enjoys the touch of the woman.

  He gets to his feet, straightens his robe and tugs the belt tight, then turns off the desk lamp as he leaves the office. If not for his uneven steps, the slight dragging of one foot, he would be silent as he moves barefoot along the dark hallway to the kitchen. He flicks on one bank of undercabinet lights and gets a bowl. He fills it with Vector, pours milk over it, and sprinkles it with sugar before going to the living room, where he stands at the middle of the wall-to-wall, ceiling-to-floor windows, looking out as he eats.

  Bright moonlight silvers the clearing in the forest surrounding his house and puts the tall firs and dense underbrush into stark relief. It’s always still and peaceful at this time of night. He slides the patio door open, steps out onto the deck and draws a deep lungful of the pungent forest scent. Crickets chirp beneath the hot tub and further off, an owl hoots. It’s primal.

  Annie complains that it’s dark and depressing under the huge old Douglas firs. She says the house is too close to the forest, it should have been in the middle of the clearing, more trees need to be taken out at the back to let more light in. She says he wouldn’t be so depressed if his house wasn’t so dark.

  He never acknowledges her comments. She doesn’t live here and no matter how often she hints at it, she never will. He can’t deny he enjoys her impressive tits, though. That they’re implants doesn’t bother him, but her thinking he’
s depressed or has other mental issues she keeps wanting him to talk about pisses him off. She doesn’t know him, not at all. It’s not her fault. He has only ever had one true friend and she wasn’t even a girlfriend, just a friend. A sweet girl friend he grew up with. Since then, he’s never let anyone get close to him and he sees no reason to change now.

  He could live in the spacious master suite at the Lodge, but he prefers this house, as small as it is. Taking the trail through the forest on his Kubota Sidekick, he can be at the Lodge in under half an hour. It takes twice as long by road, but he seldom goes that route.

  As much as it’s annoying at times that there’s no cell phone coverage, he loves the womb-like sanctuary and feels enfolded in the ancient forest. He can be himself. No one here to gawk or turn away. And he can always drive the Sidekick to the top of the hump if he needs to make a call on his cell. He wouldn’t give up the view, limited though it seems to Annie. He never tires of it.

  But tonight he’s looking out across the small cleared area at the tall trees, silvered by light from the full moon, without really seeing them.

  Why would she show up now? No one was supposed to know about the money. But then, she wasn’t supposed to find out that the transfer of the title to her mother’s house was illegal, and she did. Now she’s here. Maybe her snoopy lesbian lawyer friend who got the title transfer to the house overturned will show up next. This isn’t good.

  Movement at the edge of the clearing draws his attention. It’s the bear, a huge male grizzly. Like the trees, the fur on his hump is silvered by moonlight and the large white spot on his face gleams.

  Bears are supposed to sleep at night, but more and more, this one is as likely to show up at night as during the day. Since he killed Brutus, he seems to think he can wander the property at will, day or night, unchallenged.

  He glances back at the fur tacked above the fireplace, the head with its snarling teeth so unlike the dog’s usual expression of interest and curiosity, and shakes his head. Brutus was a good dog. He’ll always have that place of honour in the cabin.

  The Rottweiler got in a few licks of his own, ripping the bear’s face open and leaving an eyeball dangling. The eyeball was gone the next time he came around but it took weeks for the flap of skin to necrotize enough to fall away. The raw meat under it was angry-looking. It must have been excruciatingly painful, probably accounting for the lengthy roaring sessions that could be heard for weeks.

  Unlike his own ruined scalp, the bear’s fur is growing back. White, yes, but at least it’s growing back. The wound healed but the roaring sessions have continued as if he’s found something else to rage about. Maybe he has. Maybe it’s the fact of this cabin, an intrusion into his traditional range. Maybe he’s mentally ill, if a bear can be mentally ill, from the pain of the wound or maybe he got a brain infection through the empty eye socket. Or maybe he’s just angry at being scarred for life. He, of all people, understands that.

  At first, thinking only of justice for Brutus, he wanted to shoot the bear, rationalizing it would be a kindness. He set up his C-14 Timberwolf MRSWS on the deck, trained the sights on the bear, and followed his movements for better than ten minutes. Several times he had a clear shot with the red laser dot right in the middle of the bear’s massive forehead, a perfect kill shot. But he couldn’t pull the trigger.

  He has a grudging respect for the mutilated beast and feels a kinship with the animal. They were both drawn to Bear Mountain, after all. The thought came to him that the bear found him because it’s his spirit animal, in the flesh.

  In the manner of some indigenous people, he renamed himself, his inspiration for the name he chose coming from the Viking Berserkers. He can’t wear a bear skin as they did, so he settled for a tattoo on his scarred shoulder. Lumpy whorls beneath one eye make it three-dimensional. Life-like. He thought of naming himself “Bear”, but discarded that idea in favour of “Bearon”. No one will ever see it written; on email and so on, he’s just “B.” And on legal documents—well, only his lawyer and a couple of others know his real name. Just those few people with a need to know, and they’re sworn to secrecy. Spoken, it’s common enough. And when people shorten it to “Bear”, it’s perfect.

  Once he accepted the fact of the bear, he came to appreciate having it patrolling the woods around his retreat. He started putting food at the edge of the clearing. Then came the morning he came into the kitchen to find the bear on the deck outside the patio doors, looking in. For terrifying minutes Bearon thought he was going to smash the glass and come inside. In that moment, he realized that spirit animal or not, there had to be boundaries. Since the bear didn’t respect the cleared area as being Bearon’s territory, he had a two-meter high, barbed-wire-topped chain link fence built around the perimeter.

  The fence is electrified, making it doubly secure. Now when an invited guest comes, he presses the button by the front door or clicks the command on the computer, and the driveway gate opens. Everyone else takes their chances at the enterphone.

  He watches the bear approach the man gate at the back where the tray of kibble, raw meat and a watermelon waits. He seems wary of the fence. He’s smart.

  I should give him a name, too, he thinks. In the moonlight, his “grizzly” hump almost looks white. The spot on his face glows. Silverface?

  “Silverface,” he says.

  The bear looks up, suddenly as still as if frozen, seemingly fixing his one eye on him. Bearon feels a jolt of panic and takes a quick involuntary step backwards into the house. His bad leg catches on the doorsill, setting off sharp needles of pain in his hip. He nearly falls, catching the jamb with his damaged hand to save himself, and barely avoids dropping the bowl. Milk and cereal slop out. He slides the door shut with a loud thump. The bear watches for a moment before returning his attention to the food. He doesn’t look up at the house again.

  He looked me right in the eye! That was a threat! He blames me for my dog mutilating him!

  He has a fleeting thought he should get another dog, or maybe two, to patrol inside the fence. Then he gives himself a mental shake. You’re being paranoid. There’s no way the bear can get past the fence. He might have heard me but he couldn’t have seen me well enough to make eye contact. Not at this distance. No. He and I are bonded. He feels a kinship with me as I do with him. You over-reacted. He just responded to the name.

  Silverface it is.

  Nine

  Retirement Party

  “WE HARDLY EVER go out for supper. If we have to pay a sitter, why can’t we at least go someplace nice? I don’t know why you guys like that place, anyway.”

  “Because, babe, it’s homey, the beer’s cheap, and it’s only ten minutes away,” Denver says. He was late getting home so he’s just coming out of the shower now, sandy hair slicked back, whiskers freshly scraped off. He hasn’t done up the snaps on his shirt front and Astrid never tires of admiring his body, even though his tan stops in a Vee at his neck. He still has that six-pack. How does he stay so lean and fit now that he spends more time in his truck or behind a desk than on a horse or throwing bales? Unlike herself, he doesn’t even spend time on the treadmill or Bowflex.

  “Yeah, homey if you live in a cave,” she says. “All those dark beams, low ceiling, and frickin’ giant moose antlers for decoration? And the smell! Decades of spilled beer, cigarette smoke, and I’ll bet the sewer backs up every time the river rises. It’s a wonder the place doesn’t get shut down.”

  “There’s a couple pitchers of Queen Elizabeth when she got crowned, too,” Wilson points out.

  Denver chuckles and says, “Seventy-year-old pictures and the sweet smell of more’n a hundred years of spilled beer and backed-up sewer! What’s not to like? I’ll take you somewhere nice next time. How about the Riverview for our anniversary? It would be fitting, returning to where we had our first date.”

  “Sure.”

  “Come on, babe, where’s your enthusiasm? We can go any where you want, any time you want. Wilson is always ha
ppy to stay with the girls, you know.”

  “Yeah, I know. I guess I’m just tired,” she tells him.

  “You seem to be tired a lot, babe,” Denver says.

  “It’s been a busy week. Lots going on at the office, and on top of it, that woman’s accusations. And there won’t be an end to it unless she admits she isn’t telling the truth.”

  “MAKE HER TELL THE TROOF, MOMMY!”

  Astrid and Denver turn to look at the small girl with the big voice, sitting with her sister on the rug in the living room. They’re building Lincoln Log corrals for Breyer horses.

  “Little pictures have big ears,” Astrid whispers. She turns her back on the girls and herds Denver further into the kitchen. “Anyway, I bet she thinks Heather’s House has lots of money and she might as well have some of it. After all Heather’s House did for her, she makes up a lie to blackmail us? Voices coming from inside the linen service van?”

  “She’s delusional. Drugs messed up her head.”

  “I wonder if it’s a good idea to have the linen service, anyway. The driver’s a man. You know the policy about men inside the fence. If we could get a woman barn manager we could replace Jake, too. We wouldn’t have to fire him, maybe give him something over at the yard. A woman helping the girls with the horses would be a better fit. And the linen guy. Maybe we should stipulate the driver has to be a woman? You know, I wouldn’t have agreed to the linen service if they hadn’t offered it as a donation. It’s so generous of them and such a benefit for us I hate to make waves.”

  “Well, there must be a woman that can do the job. Meantime, how about they tell us when they’re going to be coming around and we push the laundry cart out to the gate for them?”

  “That’s a good idea,” Astrid says. “But aside from that, maybe we have an obligation to follow up with the women when they leave.”