The Bear Mountain Secret

by Gayle Siebert

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. Very grateful for being rescued.” He takes a swig of rye. “And it was a good reminder to Reardon that he has to share the wealth.”

  “Good thing,” Evan agrees. “Meanwhile, that fucking Trent! Yells his head off every time someone comes near. Should’ve heard him when we took the girls out. I guess he thought we’d let him out then too.”

  “He’s in the Basement?”

  “Asshole kept trying to leave. Had to haul him back in once. He nearly made it to the gate. Good thing Brent was here, little fucker’s tough and enough bigger than me I don’t know if I could’ve done it alone. That got some strange looks from the landscapers.”

  “Fuck, and they’re locals! Don’t need that kind of talk around town.”

  “So you see why I had to lock him up. Lucky the soundproofing’s good. When he’s not yelling, he’s crying or choking his chicken.”

  “Can’t blame a guy for being horny, but crying? Ugly and retarded too?”

  Evan gives him an odd look before saying, “Supposed to call it mentally challenged now. Anyway, I wouldn’t call him retarded, just not too bright. And if you can believe him, he’s got a girlfriend.”

  “Really? Shit, that’s a loose end,” Bearon says as he scratches at his ear nub. “You know who she is?”

  “No.”

  “Maybe Reardon knows, or at least can find out.”

  “What do we do if he doesn’t cooperate? Sending him to Pillerton won’t help. He can still call her as soon as he gets near a phone. And he’ll have to have a phone.”

  “It’s a problem,” Bearon says. He swirls the rye around the glass and takes a sip. “She might be willing to relocate. Or we could fix him up with something in Pillerton to take his mind off this one. Maybe there’s someone in the Pillerton congregation stupid enough.”

  “Doubtful. That kid’s a pain in the ass,” Evan says, and empties his glass. “Maybe we just let him go. He doesn’t know anything other than he grabbed up Kiersten. He wouldn’t want to go blabbing that around.”

  “You obviously haven’t been around him much. He yammers like an old woman. And he’s stupid enough to be proud of it. And you call him a kid? He’s at least mid-twenties. Did three years for that assault, remember? Cops will be looking for him for the B and E too, don’t forget. And now that he’s been downstairs, he knows a lot more. Wish you hadn’t of done that. Now he’s a Grade A Large problem. He’s gonna hafta go with you.”

  They quietly sip their rye for a minute, then Evan says, “aside from that, we got cash to wash. I’ll funnel it through Corporate of course, but we should buy a couple more houses.”

  “Maybe. How about the old house Kevin was talking about? He should be able to get the keys and I’ll go check it out next week. The guy who inherited it looks pretty clean so far. May have to just buy it from him.”

  “Not ideal.”

  “No. But we’ll rent it to the church, so we’ll get clean money that way. And we’ll be able to attract new members once we look legit.”

  “Yup.” Evan leans back and drains his drink. “Now we’re set up here, we can phase out Dogwood and sell that. More clean money that can go right into the Lodge account. Gonna need to fund the payroll account and fill the ATM at the Lodge.”

  “Don’t need washed money for the ATM,” Bearon reminds him.

  “Oh yeah,” Briggs says with a nod. “We should get some more.”

  “They’re hard to come by. But we’ll talk about it.”

  “Of course there’s commissions to think about, too. Everyone’s gonna have their hand out. Amazing how their ears perk up minutes after a shipment. But before we do anything, we have to take it to the Council.”

  “Yeah. The fuckin’ Council.” Bearon finishes his rye and pushes the glass across the table to be refilled while Evan is pouring another for himself.

  “Yeah, the fuckin’ council! Don’t forget how important they were getting this whole thing going.”

  Bearon lets out a derisive snort.

  “So, about the Communion Ceremony,” Evan says as he pours, “the Pillerton guys confirm they’re flying in tomorrow. How many of our members are in?”

  “Ten? Maybe twelve? I don’t know. You’ll have to ask Preach.”

  “I will. I think you’re right though. Probably no more than a dozen. Would’ve been nice to start off bigger.” Evan knocks the last of his whiskey back, puts his glass down with a thump, and gets to his feet. “I’m taking off. Your keys?”

  Bearon digs his keys out of his pocket, clicks his personal keys off the ring, and tosses the remote fob on the desk.

  “Thanks,” Evan says, and scoops it up.

  “Fill it before you give it back.”

  “Sure. Happy hour is in the lounge at five tomorrow. The flight comes in at three-something so we should be here in good time. I’ll see you then. Oh, and get those floor cushions unpacked. Don’t want to be messing around with that shit tomorrow.” Evan gives Bearon a nod and strides out the door.

  Bearon watches the monitors, the working of his jaw and flaring nostrils giving the lie to his outward calm.

  When the main door closes behind Briggs, Bearon leaps to his feet and takes several strides around the office. Gimme the Range Rover, like it’s fuckin’ his? Sit in my chair like it’s fuckin’ his? Get the floor cushions unpacked? Like I’m his flunky? He punches the log wall repeatedly until his fist won’t take any more.

  He strides to the chair Evan just vacated and throws himself into it. The monitor shows the Autobiography leaving the parking area and heading down the driveway. “You forget,” he says as he watches the monitor, “this ain’t Pillerton, and you are only the bag man here, asshole.”

  Will Evan ever quit reminding him he’s the one who pulled him out of the snowbank and got him to the doctor? He snorts. Doctor? Goddamn veterinarian. No actual doctor would leave him like he is. And that gives him the right to jerk him around? Maybe he needs to meet Silverface. The only person who knows who he is, not bound by solicitor-client privilege, gone. It would be a good thing.

  Then he reminds himself Evan will go home in a few days. The Range Rover—can’t get too pissed off about that, since it does technically belong to The Children of Noah, and Evan is the Exalted Leader of the First Congregation—but still, that only makes him third in command, whereas Bearon is Imperial Leader of the Second Congregation. Where does he get off ordering him around? Maybe some distance will give him the opportunity to remember whose money he’s been playing with.

  Goddamn the old man for setting everything up through Prairie Equity and Wealth Management so that arrogant little prick holds the purse strings! Goddamn the old man for leaving the last five million up for grabs!

  His fist is throbbing now. He checks the monitors to make sure there’s no one else in the building, gets up and heads for the ice machine in its nook next to the kitchen. He fills one of the plastic buckets and brings it back into his office. Seated again, he tosses a couple of cubes into his glass and tops up the Chivas, then sticks his fist into the ice bucket and studies the monitors as he scrolls through the various camera views: front gate; parking area; upper floor hall; grotto; ladies change room; billiard room; the underground parking and adjacent ceremony room where boxes of cushions await unpacking; and finally, the sub-basement.

  The first five cells are empty. The sixth and furthest from the elevator is Trent’s; he is on his bunk with a Playboy, masturbating. Bearon watches for a minute or two; when Trent starts moaning and thrashing around, he considers giving him a blast over the intercom just to see if he leaps to his feet mid-stroke. But if Trent is too stupid to realize there’s surveillance, it’s probably better to keep him ignorant.

  When the ice on his fist gets too cold to tolerate, he’ll go down and speak to him. Maybe take him some massage oil and a new stroke book or two, payment for unpacking and setting out the cushions. He can launder the sheets from the other rooms while he’s at it.


  But that can wait. Watching Trent fuck his hand is oddly stimulating. Annie should be at his place by now. He’ll go home and spend an hour with her.

  It dawns on him Evan didn’t give him the keys to his car. If they’re not in the ignition, he’ll have no way home but the Kubota UTV. He gets a balaclava from the closet behind his desk, pulls it on, and hurries out to where the Camry is parked next to one of the worker’s trucks. Windows up. Doors locked.

  He’s tempted to break a window, but doubts it could be hot-wired. It would set off the alarm and probably refuse to move in any case. Maybe he should do it just to get back at Briggs. No. He’ll find some other way.

  Sixteen

  Autobiography

  DENVER AND RICK are on the highway heading for the ranch where Denver has leased pasture for his young horses, when the gunmetal grey Range Rover with blacked-out windows speeds past them in the opposite direction.

  “Damn!” Denver exclaims. He swivels his head then watches it retreating in his rear view. “I’ve been wondering who owns that thing! Those black windows are illegal. Wonder why the cops never pulled him over for it!”

  “They’re illegal?”

  “Yeah. Well, the front ones are. Cops like to see who they’re coming up on, I guess. I’m half-ways tempted to turn around and follow the guy to see where he goes.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “Yeah. I’m curious about who, around here, has the wherewithal to buy a $200K Range Rover. And who wants the windows blacked out. Who does that to a vehicle like that?

  “Drug dealers or movie stars,” Rick says. “Used to be an Autobiography in Pillerton. Elder Reeves, the guy that was the Grand Poobah of The Children of Noah, owned it. Crashed it.”

  “Children of Noah—that’s the cult Kathy’s mother belonged to? Must be some big bucks in the cult business! What an expensive claim that would be!”

  “Dunno if it got replaced. Never saw another one around town.”

  “The Poobah or whatever you called him must not have liked it, then. From what I’ve heard they’ve got big powerful engines but handle like pigs.”

  Rick shrugs. “I wouldn’t know about that, but the reason he didn’t replace it was that he had no need for it. He crashed it because he had bullet holes in him.”

  “What? A murder in a town half the size of Dark River?”

  “Yeah.” Rick sighs and rubs his neck before continuing. “Five murders in the span of a few days that summer.”

  “Oh, I think I remember hearing about that. Were they all connected?”

  “Not officially. We think they were, though. Kathy was almost the sixth.”

  Denver gives Rick a quick glance.

  “Yeah. She was attacked by one of the guys who was later murdered. That cult was the common denominator.” Rick squirms and heaves a sigh. “I shouldn’t be telling you this. Kathy thinks if people know, they’ll see her as a victim and she doesn’t want that. But I want you to know why I’m puzzled that she came here. She’s so paranoid about strangers. I never would’ve believed she’d come here on her own in the first place, and now she feels safe enough to go out to some remote location to look for a man she knows nothing about? She must really think a lot of Astrid.”

  Denver slows the truck as they approach a wide, cleared field with a rancher set well back from the highway and a run of white plank fencing. He turns into the driveway. “I’m surprised at Astrid suggesting it, too. Like I told you, she hasn’t ventured out into the bush since...well. Strength in numbers, I guess, but—no disrespect—how much help could Kathy be? She’s barely tall enough to reach the pedals on that SUV.”

  “Yeah. She always says her legs aren’t long but at least they reach the ground. But you haven’t seen her when she goes pit bull.” Rick chews his lower lip for a moment, then asks, “the guy who abducted Astrid was one of them, wasn’t he? One of the serial killers?”

  “Yeah, she lived with them and then they, er, locked her up. Those two and their compadres deserved what they got. Blown to smithereens.”

  “No one could’ve survived?”

  “Nope. They were practically vaporized. Hardly enough left to bury. Anyone who did survive would’ve froze to death because it was a blizzard and no one found out about the blast for days. A couple of the guys, all they found were parts. Must be tough on people doing the recovery. Imagine finding part of a hand! So anyway, missing and presumed dead was the best they could do.”

  Denver drives slowly through the farmyard, past the barn, and parks next to corrals at the back. There’s a woman on a Gator in a field further down the pathway putting hay into paddocks; she looks up and waves as the men get out of the truck. In the pen in front of them, half a dozen pinto horses laze around a hayrick.

  “That little one, the sorrel filly with all the white? She’s an own daughter of Rocky Duster, so she’s well bred. But she’s on the small side, just a pony, really. Should mature around fourteen-one or -two. She’d be a good size for Kathy. Might be better for her than that big gelding, and cheaper bein’ as she’s not started yet.”

  “I kinda like that big gelding for myself. I’m not much of a cowboy, hardly rode since I was a kid. Pretty well quit once I got the ATV to run out around the pasture. I wouldn’t be getting another horse but Kathy’s got the bug and I might ride out with her once in a while. He’s big enough for me and quiet’s good for my skill, which is no skill at all really.”

  “Naw, you rode fine last night. But I know what you’re sayin’.”

  “You’re too kind. But that filly’s pretty,” Rick observes. “Kathy would like her. She’s just halter broke?”

  “Yup, that’s all. Do her feet on schedule and she’s good about that. Good for the vet. Had a saddle on her, ran her around the round pen wearin’ it and she took to that fine, but that’s all. She’s just three and I don’t like starting them until they’re four, sometimes five if they’re immature.”

  “Well, I’m no cowboy and no trainer neither.”

  “They’re all straightforward. Never had one that bucked or bolted, and this one’s real quiet. But if you don’t want to start her yourself, you must have someone you could send her to in the spring to put two or three months on her? And Kathy would have a real nice horse.”

  “We’ll definitely talk,” Rick nods. After a few minutes of watching the horses moving listlessly around their paddock as if preparing for their morning nap, Rick asks, “About that explosion—that bunch of guys—all killers, I guess?”

  “We’ll never know for sure. We know the two Hanks were, from DNA on some of the trophies, but the rest of the guys? At the very least, they went along with it.”

  “No one else could’ve been involved? Someone who wasn’t there when it blew, maybe?”

  “We-l-l,” Denver drawls, “I have heard a rumour about the new lodge pickin’ up where the old one left off. I never gave it much credence, though. Put it down to fear mongering. You know how folks love to talk! Doesn’t help, that crazy woman claiming Heather’s House is kidnapping girls.”

  “What? What’s that about?”

  “It was a worry for us for a time. The woman claimed to hear voices in the laundry truck. Cries for help. Cops checked it out, found nothing. Turns out she had a history of hearing voices. She should’ve been at Nechako instead of Heather’s because it turns out the husband she claimed to be running away from didn’t exist. Paranoid delusions, always phoning the cops claiming she was being stalked. I wouldn’t know all this except I play hockey with Sergeant Villeneuve, so it’s on the QT, you know?”

  “Oh yeah? A buddy of mine is the NCO in Charge at the Pillerton Detachment. He’s the center on the old fart’s team I play on.”

  “That’s crazy! Villeneuve plays center, too! Handy having an in with the cops. Hockey’s good for more than a beer or two and the odd pulled muscle, eh?”

  He waits for Rick’s nod of agreement before continuing. “Anyway, she’d been institutionalized before. She’s back in the psych wa
rd now, but the damage is done. Shitty thing is, we had to discontinue the laundry service. You know what it’s like when you’re on a well and septic. Real nice having that all done off site so you’re not using your own water and filling up your own septic tank. Free, too; great for a non-profit, all they wanted was a donation receipt. But we quit, just for optics.” Denver lifts his hat and gives his head a scratch before continuing. “Don’t worry, Rick. I wouldn’t let them go if I thought there was any danger.” He looks up the pathway where the Gator is raising a plume of dust as it races toward them. “You’ll like Shirley. She was born on this ranch. Gotta be pushin’ seventy, and has been runnin’ it on her own since her husband died twenty years ago.”

  The Gator pulls up in a cloud of dust a few meters off. “Good morning! Sorry ‘bout the dust. I should’ve stopped further away,” the driver says as she turns the engine off and climbs out.

  “I think we’re used to it by now,” Denver tells her.

  “Come to check on your babies?”

  “Gettin’ to be pretty big babies,” Denver replies, “Time they all got jobs! Any problems?”

  “Nuthin’s changed since you were here last, Den.” the woman replies. Her wide smile crinkles her eyes. She removes her worn work gloves and tosses them on the driver’s seat, then comes to the fence where the men stand. “They’re fine. Their appetites are sure fine, anyway. Pasture’s just about done so they’re hangin’ around here eatin’ hay most of the time. You’re gonna hafta bring some more over in another week or so.”

  “Ay-yuh, same as at our place. Sucks we have to supplement pasture this early in the year. Too many horses and not enough feed. Damn drought!” Denver clucks. “Shirley, meet Rick.”