Bears Behaving Badly

by MaryJanice Davidson, Camille Anthony, Melissa Schroeder

“Remember? Don’t go into social services for the money.”

  Pat helped with the renovations, she’d said. Which was why this was Pat’s studio and not “their” studio. What did the guy even do? Besides organic gardening? Which he’d started yesterday?

  The building was corrugated galvanized steel on the outside, like any silo, with broad windows cut along the side, unlike any silo. The windows all faced south, keeping heating costs low (for Minnesota, at least), while the main floor had a small kitchen, a living–dining area with couch and chairs and table, and three deep cubbies in the side. Each held a twin mattress and two pillows, with a curtain that could be pulled for privacy.

  The floor was crimson rubber, which was practical and looked nice, and the interior walls were painted tan with red accents. Virtually all the furniture was curved, and David couldn’t begin to think what that must have cost. Had to be custom, and he had an idea why a steel building meant solely to store grain in bulk had been refurbished like this, then beefed up with security.

  Pat led them downstairs, and the space underground was large, open, and stark: just an architect’s table and some counter space (curved, of course). The first thing Pat had done was show Caro his sketch pads, easels, pens, pencils, chalks, paints, other paints, still more paints, and tons of other artist junk. “You’re welcome here to talk anytime,” he said, and Caro nodded and reached for a pad.

  “What about me?”

  “Dev, you’re welcome here also. I just didn’t know if you’d be into art.”

  “Oh. Okay.”

  “Plus,” Pat added, “there’s the fact that you can talk, so you don’t have to rely on art supplies to get your point across.”

  “I can do art! I will art all over this place if you don’t watch out.”

  “Stop making art a verb,” Pat commanded. Meanwhile, Caro had scribbled something and showed it to him. Pat read it, reached for his pad, and wrote something in return.

  “Why are you doing it that way?” Annette asked, puzzled. “You can talk.”

  Pat sighed and wrote something that got a smirk out of Caro. He showed it to Annette:

  This is why bears are goddamned savages.

  And out loud: “It’s polite to talk to a guest in their own language. It’s called class, you shaggy-haired cretin.”

  “I do not have… Well, I might be a bit overdue for a trim.”

  “I’d hoped my residual class would have rubbed off on you—”

  “Rude.”

  “—but you just suck it in,” Pat lamented, “like a classless black hole from which nothing can escape, including class.”

  “You’re a classless black hole,” she muttered like a kid getting ready to pout. David could guess what was bugging her. (Besides the stress of multiple attacks in a shockingly short time, which anyone would find off-putting.) He’d noticed over time that people liked Annette and trusted her, more or less on sight. Even the hardest, saddest survivors. Even the most nitpicky of supervisors. Even the most enraged of carfentanil users.

  Caro, though? She was making Annette work for it.

  “Well, your terrible plan worked, at least. What?” Pat asked. “Why are you looking at each other but not me?”

  “Because as it turns out, our plan was moot.”

  “Did you tell the dead guys in our kitchen it was moot?”

  “Sorry, I’ll clarify. We did not get a chance to implement it. We only told my boss we had Caro, but not where. We never even mentioned my house. And frankly, I would be surprised to learn that my boss retained any part of that conversation.”

  “So…what?”

  “So only one person knew Caro was here.” She turned to David. “Knows.”

  “Yep.”

  “I’m lost,” Dev confessed.

  “It’s awful, but I guess you were right about Judge Gomph,” she added, stricken. “I’m sorry I didn’t give your theory any merit.”

  “What’s a Gomph?” Pat asked.

  “A guy the size of a piano with a superdeep voice who eats salad out of buckets,” Dev said. “Big buckets. You’ve gotta see it to believe it.”

  “Judge for the juvie courts,” David replied. “Looks like he might have something to do with the abuse Caro had to live through. He gave Annette permission to be parens familia for three days, but now it’s looking like he was just isolating Caro so he could get rid of her.”

  Pat’s eyes went big. “A fucking judge sent those guys?”

  Before Annette could answer, the phone on the wall rang.

  “Jeez, there’s a cord sticking out of it and everything,” Dev marveled. “That’s not old school. That’s prehistoric school.”

  “Landlines have their uses,” Annette said.

  “And fewer than half-a-dozen people have the number for that particular landline,” Pat added. “And since my dad only calls on Labor Day, or when he needs bail or rehab, odds are it’s for one or both of you two.”

  David could see Annette hesitate before picking up the red receiver, could almost hear her wondering What fresh hell is this? while she answered.

  “Hello? Oh! Nadia, you won’t believe what… Ow.” She held the phone a couple of inches away. “Nadia? Nadia? Nadia? Caaaaaaalm down… I can’t understand a word you’re… Can you even hear me? Nadia… I think you’re going supersonic, Nadia, or would it be subsonic?”

  “Who is it?” Dev asked with faux innocence.

  “Nadia, I’m just going to hold the phone further away from my beleaguered ear canal… Nadia? And wait for you to finish or pass out from lack of oxygen, and we’ll go from there.”

  Which was what happened. David was genuinely amazed: who knew Nadia could squawk and shriek an unbroken litany of complaints, reprimands, and profanity for well over three minutes? Does Guinness keep track of stuff like this? Because they should.

  Finally: “I understand. We’re on our way… I… Yes. And just for the record, I’m s—annnd she hung up.” She turned to David. “There’s trouble at the—”

  “Old mill? Lead the way, girl!”

  “Kindly rot in hell, Pat. There’s trouble at United. And Gomph’s looking for us.”

  “Looking for us hard, or just ranting?”

  “Both? That’s when Nadia began to get especially incoherent. She said something about Oz, too. Look!” Annette held up a trembling hand. “I’m still shaking.”

  “Then we’d better get our rogue butts in gear.” David paused and took a last look around the snug chamber. “Is this what dig in and run meant?”

  “Of course.”

  “The best part is, even if it’s underground, it’s a lot warmer than the main house.”

  “Pat. We’ve been over this,” Annette said in the tone of the long-suffering. “The main house isn’t chilly.”

  “The thermostat up there is permanently set to sixty-three. You’ve basically turned your house into a satellite of the polar circles.”

  “I have not!”

  “I am positive,” Pat said to David, “that if she was wearing a sweater and I locked her in a freezer, she’d ditch the sweater.”

  “At least I’m not a slave to my hypothalamus.” At their blank stares, she added, “The body’s thermostat.” Still nothing. “The cold doesn’t bother me, all right? It didn’t bother anyone in my family. My folks lived in Alaska for years before we came here. And the cold shouldn’t bother you guys, either.”

  “Gotta be a werebear thing,” Pat guessed. “This time of year, all her systems are telling her to load up on protein, hoard chocolate, stop shaving her legs, and get ready to hibernate beneath her Pottery Barn comforters.”

  “That’s offensive,” she snapped. “That’s like me saying all werefoxes are born troublemakers. Obviously, that’s a gross…” She glanced around, eyes narrowing as she realized no one was arguing the generalization.
“Oh, come on!”

  David cleared his throat. “I think we’re getting off—”

  “Dammit, if you’re cold, grow fur! We can all grow fur.”

  “Just admit you’re trying to give us hypothermia! Very, very slowly. It’s like the reverse of when you try to burn someone out. You’re gradually freezing us out. Admit it!” Pat demanded. “You’ll feel better.”

  She groaned, seized David’s shoulder, ignored his surprised yelp, and started propelling him toward the stairs. “Enough. If the syndicate is dumb enough to send more foot soldiers, they’ll never get in here in time. The big house isn’t safe—”

  “I’ll say. It’s a goddamned frigid tundra up there.”

  “—even if it’s stuffed with snacks. Which it is. Which we can’t get at.” Annette sighed, no doubt wondering if her potato chip bags were still intact. “There are snacks here, but only a day’s worth. So.”

  “Yeah, well, the big house is also stuffed with rapidly cooling corpses,” Dev pointed out, “so we’re good down here.”

  “I’m glad to hear it,” Annette replied, “because you’re stuck here for the duration.”

  “We all are,” Pat said. “Trapped like bugs under a glass, slowly dying.”

  “That’s the spirit.”

  Before she could elaborate, a howl from the house split the air.

  “Oh shit,” Dev breathed. “The dead warwolves brought reinforcements!”

  “Worse,” Annette said glumly. To David: “Come on. He’ll just keep yelling until we come out.”

  Chapter 21

  “This is the polar opposite of stay away,” Annette muttered. Then, louder as they climbed the hill to the big house: “Do you hear me, Oz? Polar. Opposite!”

  The werewolf up top watched them approach, so still he could’ve been mistaken for a statue save for the breeze ruffling his fur. He had typical Canis rufus coloring: reddish fur on legs and belly, fading to tawny on his flanks, face fur a pale gold, bright-green eyes standing out from the white markings around his muzzle. His ears were large and alert, ringed in red fur, and twitched as they approached.

  “Jesus,” David muttered. Oz’s beast was lanky and lean, the tips of his furred red ears a good four inches above Annette’s waist. Like a greyhound, if greyhounds had accounting degrees and could bite through femurs.

  “Why are you here?” Annette had breezed past Oz and was stomping around, gathering up the man’s clothes which he’d removed so quickly there were rips throughout the fabric. “Is there nothing that needs doing in Accounting? How is that possible? The end of the fiscal year is only a few months away!”

  Oz growled in reply, which raised the hackles on the back of David’s neck.

  Don’t! It’s not an actual threat display! This from his late mother, sounding more panicked than usual. She was right, though David was preeeeeeetty sure he could take the wolf. Probably couldn’t outrun him, though—definitely a fun fact to keep in mind.

  Oz was still growling when he shifted back. “Gggggggrrrrrrreally, Annette? There’s a bunch of dead guys in your house, but you wanna talk fiscal year-end? First, that’s almost six months from now, and second, dead guys in your house.”

  “I have the situation under control!” Annette punctuated her declaration by shoving Oz’s ripped clothing into his arms.

  Oz shoved them back. “Again, dead guys. In your house! Christ, I thought you were hurt! Or worse!”

  “I’m fine. We’re all fine. And the operative word is ‘dead,’ Oz.” Another shove. “Don’t give these back to me. This is already ridiculous beyond words.”

  David cleared his throat while Annette’s bear went nose to nose with Oz’s wolf. “Uh.”

  “I’m not that malnourished fourteen-year-old anymore, Annette. It’s not your job to look out for me anymore. It’s my job.”

  “I know that,” she snapped back.

  “Guys?”

  “Except you don’t know that, because you’re neck deep in something—bad enough—but you seem equally engaged in keeping me clear of it, which is just dumb and shortsighted and, frankly, a little hurtful.”

  “You’re dumb and shortsighted.” Annette sighed, then added, “I know. Not my best comeback. Listen. It’s not just the safety issues. This job will break your heart, Oz. Stay in Accounting, where everything is numbers and air-conditioning and a break room that smells like fresh bread.”

  “You guys?” David waited until they both looked at him. “We’re doing this in the open and Oz is naked and a bunch of warwolves tried to kill us and, like Oz said…corpses. I know you don’t get a lot of traffic out here, Annette, but this is just begging for trouble.”

  “You’re right.” To Oz: “Piles of corpses aside, David and I have things under control.”

  David nodded in semisolidarity, hoping he wore the expression of a man with everything under control.

  “And so,” Annette concluded with a gesture toward the house, “you can go. You can even borrow something of Pat’s because you were in such a hurry to butt in where you weren’t needed that you didn’t take the time to disrobe properly so I’m sure you could grab a T-shirt or something but I can tell by the look on your face that you’re not inclined to do any of that.”

  “No, you well-meaning nimrod!” Oz roared.

  “Just as well. Pat would’ve had a fit. No one treats their clothes worse than he does, but God forbid someone else should accidentally—”

  “Look!” David called. “I’ve turned around, and I’m walking back down to the studio. Where people can’t see us. And even if they did, it’d take them forever to breach. See? Why don’t you guys follow me? Just for fun. Just to see what happens next.” He wasn’t looking, but he could feel Annette roll her eyes, and

  (hallelujah)

  heard them fall into step behind him, Oz grumbling a bit as he stepped on a sharp rock.

  “Should’ve kept your socks on,” Annette snickered. Which was a pretty great mental image, TBH.

  “Annette, I’m not here just to butt…to help. I think I found something. That’s the reason I came. I wasn’t even sure you’d be home.”

  “Technically I wasn’t, Oz,” she pointed out.

  “But I couldn’t just do nothing.”

  “Disagree.”

  “And then, the second I got out of my car I could smell blood, so…”

  “So you jettisoned good sense and are fortunate you weren’t killed, and then what would I tell Mama Mac?”

  Oz laughed. “You’ve just described the week you’re having. And what would I tell her?”

  And then, behind him, a sound that was quickly becoming David’s favorite thing: Annette Garsea, surprised into a giggle.

  * * *

  “I don’t know what this Lund guy was up to, but he had twenty-two bank accounts, eleven shell corporations, no attorney of record, and his favorite hobby was buying worthless property and hanging onto it, no matter how much or fast it decreased in value.”

  Not his favorite hobby, David thought.

  “I mean, sure, you can legitimately use them for tax avoidance purposes or to get different kinds of financing—hello, Bill Gates!—but this guy’s setup? Is weird. The methodology is way off. And everybody knows that it’s just a hop, skip, and a pounce from tax avoidance to outright evasion, right?” Taking in their blank expressions, Oz added, “Don’t worry, I’ll take you through it.”

  “That only makes me worry more,” Dev said.

  “Aw, don’t be intimidated, you guys! I know forensic accounting sounds sexy—”

  Annette made a sound awfully like a snort.

  “—but it’s pretty straightforward. And I’m all up to date on my certified-forensic-accountant continuing ed, so don’t worry about that. So! There are shell corporation and there are shell corporations—”

  “I’m already
lost,” David admitted. Caro was, too, maybe. She’d taken one look at Oz and retreated to one of the bedroom cubbies, twitched the curtain shut for privacy, and hadn’t made a peep since. Poor cub. David had seen such behavior before. Caro might be uneasy around unfamiliar males and/or unfamiliar werewolves for the rest of her life. He counted himself lucky that, for whatever reason, she didn’t absent herself from his presence. He and Oz were different builds and different subspecies…maybe that was it.

  “So, so lost.” Annette reached out and gave David’s hand a squeeze (assurance? sympathy?), then dropped it just as quickly. A sideways glance showed her intent on Oz’s lecture. Maybe she couldn’t help herself, just had to touch him, however briefly. Yeah, right. “So, so, so, so lost,” he added.

  “Hang on, I’m explaining! So this guy Lund, he had money all over the place. And shells for shelters, like I said. But the setup’s all wrong. None of them are in the Caymans, for example. They’re all smack in the middle of huge metropolitan areas. That’s missing the point right there! And then there’s his property. Warehouses, sure, but right on the floodplain? Just to insure them properly would cost more than the buildings are worth. Not to mention accounting stuff accounting stuff shell companies and more accounting jargon, and then jargon jargon, accounting stuff, and more jargon. Right?”

  All this while Oz, clad in one of Pat’s aprons (black, with white lettering: THIS SHIT IS GOING TO BE DELICIOUS) and nothing else, prowled around an easel holding an enormous sketch pad. He’d occasionally dart back to it and scribble more nonsense. Sometimes he would draw a box around the nonsense. And arrows pointing to the nonsense.

  Annette, at least, seem to be grasping some of the lecture, thank Christ. “So you’re saying Lund was exceptionally shady. To the nth degree.”

  “Incredibly fucking shady, yep.”

  “But nothing straight-up illegal. Just an occasional gray area.”

  “That’s right.” Oz sighed and capped the marker. “It’s just…I can’t think of a legit reason for this random guy to have twenty-two accounts and eleven shell companies.”

  “Okay. That’s… Well, I don’t know what that is. But I’m sure it’ll be helpful.” There was a long, almost excruciating pause, and then Annette added, “Thank you, Oz.”