“I see,” Desoto said slowly. “But this isn’t—” He stopped. “I was going to say that this isn’t my business, but obviously you think it is.”
“This officer was more than just crooked. He was a traitor. Rumor has it that he had dealings with drug dealers, the Russian mafia, the CIA—basically anyone who would pay him.” It pained Chuck to say this. He tried to hide his disgust, but he knew that Desoto saw through his guise of indifference. “He was eventually caught and the higher-ups in government decided to use him to pass misinformation to his various employers instead of prosecuting him. This would have scared a normal person, but I don’t think Brian was normal.”
“Is it his hand that’s having the funeral?”
“No. Brian is still more or less intact. He would be at the bottom of a ravine somewhere except for a couple of matters.” The Mountie was aware of Butterscotch’s surprised glance. He hadn’t known that he was going to be completely open about what happened, but it felt like the right thing to do. “First, he has fresh needle tracks on his body and he wasn’t a drug user or a diabetic. Secondly, the hand belonged to a sometimes girlfriend of his who worked for a drug company in their immunology lab. The woman—Janet Dee—was lying in wait for Brian and shot him between here and Seven Forks for reasons unknown—“
“But easily guessed given Brian’s past,” Butterscotch added.
“It wasn’t an immediately fatal shot and Brian ended up killing her before she got off another. He left her in the forest. Bears got to her body before we did and all we recovered was a hand and her work badge.”
“Mean bears,” Desoto commented.
“Yes, unseasonably so,” Butterscotch added, setting some soda water in front of the agent. “We don’t know why the bears are out of their dens. But since they are, they’re hungry and there isn’t much to eat. They haven’t come into town but everyone needs to be careful when outside.”
Desoto shuddered.
“Do you know why this Brian was coming to the Gulch? Was he a friend?” Desoto asked.
“Not hardly,” Chuck said. “And Brian didn’t pack when he came up. It looks like a spontaneous decision to flee from someone or something. He bought a heavy coat at a department store and then blackmailed another pilot to fly him into Seven Forks. The pilot wouldn’t take him all the way to McIntyre’s Gulch.”
“Too bad he didn’t fly with Danny McIntyre.”
“He couldn’t. Danny was already flying Brian’s killer into town. She used an alias.”
Desoto grunted.
“So premeditated murder.”
“Probably. Or a willingness to use murder as a last resort. Danny also flew in another agent the next day. He is calling himself Mr. Smith—the same alias Brian used on his flight. It’s the same alias all agents to the Gulch have used. I am afraid that my government hasn’t hired very original thinkers. The agent is still in Seven Forks, unable to rent a vehicle to get here. I don’t know how long he can be kept away though.”
There was a silence.
“Why call me?” Desoto asked.
“You’ve played straight with us in the past. And Brian had so many masters that I don’t know whom to trust. Even if I find someone honest, I can’t see any way to turn in this information without it leading back to the Gulch.”
“And you can’t have that?” Desoto’s voice was neutral.
“We can’t have that.”
He wanted to ask, but didn’t. Again, Chuck approved.
“And you think there is important stuff here in these files?”
“I think that this was Brian’s insurance policy, his potential blackmail database when he decided to retire to some country that doesn’t have an extradition treaty with Canada. At least half of it is, and someone needs to know who’s dirty in the government and who else might be for sale.” Desoto grunted again. “The other part has chemical formulas. Maybe they’re nothing—a new pain killer or antifungal cream. But maybe, given Brian’s choice of employers, it’s something worse. I think we have to know which it is.”
Desoto sat back in his chair. He didn’t like this idea at all.
“I noticed a large burned area as we were flying in. Did you have a fire?”
“In a manner of speaking.” Chuck hesitated.
“Some of the big kids were playing with dynamite,” Butterscotch said, sparing him the task of admitting it was his father who had nearly blown up the town.
“Speaking of vehicles. Will I be able to rent something in Seven Forks when I leave? I’m not flying with that maniac ever again. I’ve contributed a lot to my 401K and I want to collect my pension.”
“Something can be arranged. We’ll just have to make sure Mr. Smith isn’t aware of you.”
“Okay then. I think I can help. Do you want me to take the stick, or shall we copy the files?”
“Take the stick.”
“But later,” Butterscotch said. “We need to get ready for the funeral.”
Desoto looked surprised.
“You really want me to come?”
“Why not? It will be culturally enriching,” Butterscotch assured him with maybe a tiny touch of malice. “And there is no reason you can’t have a little fun while you’re here.”
Desoto looked skeptical.
“Seriously. We send people off in fine style. I think every house in town has its own still.”
Chapter 13
Once more Mountie Charles Goodhead found himself sitting alone in the back of the room watching as the redheaded citizens of McIntyre’s Gulch filed into the building. This time the meeting place was the town community hall which also served as the church on Sundays and was therefore the most logical location to hold the funeral for the hand. As was the case when bears were active, the attendees brought firearms with them and in all other ways acted as if they were anywhere but in the town’s place of worship. They tended to gather in small groups to discuss the local news and laugh over rude jokes, then saunter round the place like restless caribou anxious to get out and eat hay while the sun shines, his father included. Horace was looking and sounding more like a Gulcher every day, even using the odd Gaelic greeting.
The Mountie exchanged welcoming nods with everyone he knew, which was getting on toward everyone. He was even introduced to Denny the Diesel who was done riding the porcelain throne after the gastrointestinal propellant produced by Big John’s latest house special.
While Butterscotch had left him alone in the back of the room to go to the Lonesome Moose to help the Flowers prepare for the post-funeral feast, she’d left her special guest, Agent Desoto, sitting alone in the front of the room. The agent had said that he should be in attendance to assure himself that the remains were disposed of properly, but it was said tongue in cheek.
Whatever the reason that Butterscotch wanted him there, Chuck certainly didn’t want to have anything to do with the man in black from south of the border. It had taken the Gulchers long enough to accept him. He didn’t want to jeopardize his hard-won place of trust in the community. Chuck enjoyed watching the locals eye the agent suspiciously, remembering just how cold their regard for a stranger could feel. Desoto sat stoically ignoring the glares and Gaelic insults.
Of particular interest to Chuck were the two preachers sitting at the head of the room behind the pulpit. Butterscotch had provided the backstory on their attendance before leaving the gathering. Somehow, the Presbyterian minister, John McNab, and the priest, Father White, had both gotten word of the funeral and had both insisted on conducting the rites. Though neither knew the faith of the dearly departed, they were sure the deceased was headed straight to hell if they didn’t have a hand themselves in guiding the lone appendage on its way into the afterlife.
Upon his arrival, the Reverend McNab had jokingly asked for a blood test of the hand and when asked why explained that any sign of syphilis would prove the former owner was a Catholic. Father White had complained that only the hand was available to be interred to which the town dru
nk, Whisky Jack, responded loudly that he’d be damned before he’d go into the woods to ask the bears to return the rest of the body. Chuck was almost sure that Desoto’s sudden cough had been a smothered laugh.
Before the service, the two men of God had flipped a coin and the good father had won. As the crowd settled down, he rose to speak first over the remains which lay in a jewelry box set before the pulpit. Fortunately, he brought notes with him since his memory wasn’t what it used to be. All in attendance prayed that he stayed on track since his aging, addled mind was easily derailed and likely to ramble on for hours before it ran out of steam.
“Friends, Gulchers, countrymen,” he began awkwardly, “we are gathered here today to pay our last respects to the dearly departed, or at least a small portion of the dearly departed.” He grumbled this last portion of his opening under his breath.
“Not me, I’m here for the whisky,” Whisky Jack bellowed to accompanying laughter.
“I’m sure that he, or she, whichever the case might be, takes comfort in the fact that so many of you have gathered to say farewell to his or her hand,” the priest continued, deftly ignoring Whisky Jack’s comment. But then he became flustered as he flipped back and forth through his notes. “Now this is silly,” he exclaimed, “doesn’t anyone even know the sex of the former owner of the hand? And what about a name, for Saint Peter’s sake?”
“It’s a female hand, Father,” Chuck called out. “It once belonged to a woman named Janet Dee.”
“Now I ask you,” the father said in frustration, “would it have been too much to ask that a few of these details be shared with your priest before the service began?”
“The whisky’s waitin’, Father,” Whisky Jack reminded.
“Sweet Mary, mother of Christ, Jack. I know you are as God made you, but would you keep your trap shut for one second? I’m trying to make an important point here. You know how many of you showed up for confession last Sunday?” the father asked. “None. That’s how many. Now, are you trying to tell me that in a town full of the likes of you all there’s no sinning going on?”
The audience grumbled. Chuck knew from firsthand experience that the people of the Gulch didn’t take kindly to confrontation on their way of life. He started to grow uneasy with so many firearms in the room.
“Now I ask you,” the father continued, “who amongst us is without sin?”
A hand shot up from the audience. It was Kyle “the Skunk” McIntyre. He was actually bouncing up and down in his seat he was so excited to be picked to give the answer.
“Yes, Kyle. Do you have something to say?”
“Our Lord Jesus Christ!” Kyle offered. “He was without sin.”
The audience murmured. “Good answer,” a few people agreed. But then Father White made a show of looking all around the room, even going so far as to put his hand up to shade his eyes.
“Kyle, you beloved moron of God, do you happen to see our Lord and savior sitting anywhere in the audience today? Huh?”
“No, Father,” Kyle replied timidly. “But isn’t he here in spirit?”
“In spirit. But I put it to you, there is no one amongst us who is sittin’ here in his human flesh who is without sin—and you’re all going to hell if I don’t have someone showing up to confession in two weeks’ time. Now, where was I?”
“I think you were about to make one final statement,” Chuck called in the hope of bringing this calamity to a swift conclusion.
“Thank you, Mountie,” said Father White. “In conclusion, I pray that the dearly departed is right now in the comforting arms of our loving Lord to live in peace and happiness forever and ever. Amen.”
“Amen!”
The father took his seat as the Presbyterian minister, John McNab, rose to take his place at the pulpit. The minister looked back to Father White and shook his head in disgust.
“Now I can see why so few of you show up to Sunday service after having to listen to that sort of drivel every other week,” he began.
Father White completely missed McNab’s comment because he was too busy still trying to make sense out of his notes.
“God help us all,” the minister said.
“God help us all,” his congregation replied dutifully.
“My father once told me a story that I think has application in this instance.”
Oh no, Chuck thought. Everyone in town had either experienced or heard rumor of the Reverend McNab’s stories. The reverend fancied himself a comedian, and in truth would have preferred a career on the stage to one behind the pulpit. However, his jokes were often bad and never had anything to do with the subject of his sermon. In fact, he spent more time rationalizing the telling of his jokes then he did telling them in the first place.
“The foreman at a work site finds one of his workers going through a box of nails throwing away every other nail. He asks what the worker is doing and the worker explains that the heads on every other nail are on the wrong end. The boss hits him in the head and explains that those nails are for the other side of the house.”
His audience groaned in response to this feeble attempt at humor.
“I think we can all take comfort in that story,” McNab concluded.
“Whisky time! Whisky time!” Whisky Jack chanted, barely able to remain in his seat.
“A doctor, an Irishman, and a Jew walk into a bar,” the minister began.
Just as he was about to relate another groaner, the jewelry box before him popped open, a tiny ballerina pushed aside the gloved hand within, and a music box rendition of “Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy” from The Nutcracker suite began to play as the tiny figurine danced in place. People took this as a sign to leave.
“But wait, you haven’t heard the best part yet,” Reverend McNab complained.
Desoto’s face turned a dangerous shade of red.
Chuck finally rose and followed the flow of people out of the room and across the street to the Lonesome Moose for the belated wake. Inside the place the whisky ran freely and the conversation was loud and boisterous. Whisky Jack was of course the first in line to accept the free-flowing libation.
Chuck ran into Father White, who had a full glass in his hand, and politely complimented him on his sermon.
“Was I really that good?” the father asked. “In the heat of the moment I often lose all track of what I’m saying but trust in the Lord that what comes out of my mouth is appropriate. It’s the stroke, you know. I’ve got a clot on the brain.”
Chuck murmured something and fled.
“You knocked them dead,” he told McNab when he ran into him a few minutes later.
“Did I? Glad someone has a sense of humor. Have you ever heard the one about.…” the reverend began.
“Sorry, Reverend,” Chuck interrupted, “but I see someone I need to speak with urgently.”
Chuck escaped across the room looking for someone to speak with, anyone at all. It was his misfortune to find that Agent Desoto was the only someone who was free to talk.
“Agent,” Chuck acknowledged, nodding his head.
“Mountie,” Desoto replied, doing the same. He looked like he was still having trouble strangling a laugh.
“I hope you enjoyed the funeral,” Chuck said.
“More than any I’ve attended in a long while,” the agent replied. “I wish I had video.”
Chuck felt himself smile.
“I’m very glad you don’t. We don’t need this appearing on YouTube.”
“Shall we grab a plate? I have to admit that the food smells delicious.”
“The women in town are mostly good cooks. Well, the Flowers and Butterscotch are.”
Chuck and Desoto loaded their plates and found seats in the back of the room where they could sit and watch over things. It turned out they had that in common—a tendency to like to watch over things to make sure that the armed people around them remained calm. They drank whisky and after a while shared one or two stories from their past service. Butterscotch and Hor
ace stopped by a time or two to share a word or refill their glasses, but other than that they weren’t disturbed.
Desoto eyed Sasha with interest and Chuck thought that maybe the agent had recognized the Butcher of Minsk.
“This town is kind of like a home base for a witness protection program,” Desoto muttered.
“Self-protection, a town of last resort,” Chuck corrected.
Desoto nodded.
Later, the hand was taken out to the blackened hollow where they had had the explosion and it was buried there since it was the only place where the earth was broken up enough to turn with a shovel. It was extremely awkward, but Father White insisted that a full complement of six pallbearers be in attendance. They stumbled over each other’s feet trying to maintain contact with the child’s jewelry box containing the hand as they walked to the grave site.
Both of the men of God said words over the grave as it was filled. It started to sleet. No one stuck around to listen and they said their prayers quickly as the wind was bitter cold. Instead, everyone returned to the Lonesome Moose and continued drinking and dancing to fiddle music until nearly dawn.
Chuck and Desoto fell asleep in their seats in the back of the pub, each with one eye open watching for any sign of danger.
* * *
I shook Chuck gently and urged him awake.
“Let’s go home,” I said. “I can’t wash another dish. The Flowers and I will finish cleaning in the afternoon.”
Thank heavens for leftovers because it would be a while before I wanted to do any more cooking either.
“Desoto?”
I looked at the sleeping detective. He was snoring peacefully, his head pillowed on his coat. The pub was almost empty. Only Big John was left, straightening up the bar. The big clock said it was nearly four a.m.
“Leave him for now. They’ll show him up to his room later.”
“My dad?”
“Already in bed along with the preachers. I don’t think your dad is used to so many late nights. Were you awake to hear him sing ‘Danny Boy’?”
Points West (A Butterscotch Jones Mystery Book 5) Page 7