Poppy McVie Mysteries: Books 1-3 (The Poppy McVie Box Set Series)

by Kimberli A. Bindschatel

  I nodded, resigned. He wasn’t telling me anything I didn’t know. “God it’s beautiful here. Look how the stars fill the sky like glitter sprinkled across black velvet.” He stared at me. “I love how the air smells. Like fall, all earthy and wet. And listen to the river gurgle at the edges where it laps on the gravel. It’s like music—”

  “I know how you feel about this. And if we need to—”

  “No, you don’t,” I said, too sharply. “You don’t know how I feel about it.”

  He set his jaw, holding back. “Fine. But I do know that one mistake could get us killed.” He paused and I could tell he was carefully planning his words. “And I don’t like going in with a partner I’m not sure I can trust to do what needs to be done.”

  My heart rate shot up. “I told you. I’ll do my job.”

  “I don’t question your dedication. Or your abilities,” he said through clenched teeth. “I need to know that you’re gonna pull the goddamn trigger.”

  He stared at me. I bit my lip, staring back.

  “I’m your partner. I’ve got your back. But—” He pressed his lips together.

  I opened my mouth to answer, but I couldn’t. I didn’t have one.

  “Poppy, listen to me. It’s not going to be like you said about the trophy mount in the airport, you looking through the sights at some cuddly, sleeping bear. He’ll probably provoke it. And the question is, when that bear is charging right at you, are you set in your mind to pull the trigger?” He moved so I was looking him in the eye. “I know you. You tell yourself that you wouldn’t. You might even believe you wouldn’t. But when it happens, when you are facing the reality, when it comes down to that life or death moment, I think you will.”

  What? I jerked back. “Are you saying I’m really a killer at heart?”

  “I’m saying you’ve never stared death in the face. And,” he paused, “you don’t know how devastating it can be.”

  “Now you’re confusing me. Are you worried I won’t do my job, or worried that when I do, it will break my heart?”

  “Both.” He sighed. “I’m trying to tell you that you need to decide right now. You need to be ready. You need to have that set in your mind. Because in that moment, when that animal’s bearing down on you, if you even hesitate—”

  “I get it!”

  He shook his head, exhaling with a huff. “I don’t think you do.”

  “Oh, I do. You don’t have to say it for the twenty-seventh time. You don’t like working with me. Fine. When we get back, I’ll probably be demoted or fired or whatever anyway and you’ll get your wish. ”

  “What?” He pulled back. “That’s not true.”

  “You don’t like my approach. You don’t like my views. You’re afraid that—”

  “Yes, Poppy, I’m afraid. I’m afraid your idealism is going to get you killed.”

  I drew back. That stung. I closed my eyes and calmly said, “Please leave me alone. Go back to the lodge. And leave me alone.”

  “Not a good idea.” A voice behind us. We both spun around. It was Rocky. Crap. How long had he been there? He stood ten paces away. A shadow in the night. “You shouldn’t be out here at night. You never know what might be lurking in them woods.”

  Or who?

  “Right,” Dalton said. “We were just heading back in.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  The air had turned moist overnight and a hint of fog hung in the shadows. Like a scene from a postcard, the sun rose over the hills and bathed the forest in a misty crimson and ochre. Tiny specks of sunlight sparkled on the river.

  Without a word, Rocky loaded our gear into the back of the plane, the same plane we’d flown in on with Mark. We were headed out to the spike camp for seven to ten days to find a trophy-sized bruin, a bear for the record books. No other details were given, of course. We were to smile and nod and put all our faith into the guide. That’s how it works. There’s no actual hunting involved. They serve up a trophy on a silver platter. All we needed to do was actually pull the trigger.

  Irene emerged from the lodge, waving for us to wait, a canvas bag in her other hand. “Lunch for the flight out,” she said and handed me the bag with a genuine smile. Her hand lingered, holding mine for a moment. With a determined gaze, she said, “Be careful.” I thanked her with a smile.

  Once again, I climbed into the passenger seat, making Dalton sit in the back. I wasn’t in the mood to sit next to him.

  If we couldn’t go out with Townsend, why couldn’t we have gotten assigned with cute Jack? He seemed kind, personable even. Or the mysterious Bob. Rocky went about his work without notice that actual humans were part of the equation. He kept his head down, didn’t make eye contact.

  Maybe I’d gone too far with my dismissal of him and he’d taken it personally and felt insulted. I had called him a clown. I’m sure they’d dealt with arrogant clients before, though. Oh well. There was nothing to do about it now.

  Rocky climbed into the pilot seat.

  “Good morning,” I said, trying to lighten the mood.

  He paused, looking ahead as though he might turn to stone if he dared to look me in the eye. “Mornin’.” He went through all the motions, flipping switches, pumping levers, and the propeller started spinning. “Buckle your seatbelt. The weather’s supposed to turn. It’ll be a rough flight,” he said, an edge to his voice, more threat than warning.

  Well, I guess that answers that question.

  He scanned and rescanned the dashboard. Not like Mark had done, checking and double checking all the controls. Rocky seemed impatient, like waiting for the engine to warm up created an unbearable time gap of inaction.

  “Is something wrong?” I asked. “With the plane?”

  He turned to me, his gaze a gray stare. “Don’t you worry your pretty little head. I’m quite capable.”

  Something about his stare made me back down. “That’s not what I meant,” I said. The last thing I wanted to do was insult the guy any further. “I just, you know, don’t like flying.” That was a good lie.

  He pushed the throttle lever forward, the engine fired up, and we were in motion. He turned his steel gray eyes on me again. “Everything will be all right. You’re with me now. I’ll take good care of you.”

  Somehow that didn’t feel comforting.

  The rain came while in flight. Water droplets hit the windshield and slid off leaving tiny trails, making the view muted and blurry. The whir of the engine and the steamy warmth inside the cockpit pushed me into a drowsy state.

  We flew south-southwest. Right toward the park. We’d either be within the boundary, which was illegal, and risky with a plane, which was easily seen, or, more likely, just outside of it, to lure a bear out of the refuge.

  And there was nothing we could do about it.

  Rocky pulled back on the throttle and we started to descend toward a small lake tucked in among what appeared to be rolling hills, but I was coming to realize that what they said was true: everything’s big in Alaska. The landscape was so vast, it was hard to judge distance and size. Those hills were probably considered mountains back home.

  He banked the plane sharply, dipping hard to the right, then made a full circle as he descended, scanning the surface of the lake for any obstructions before touching down.

  We taxied to shore, leaving a ripple that slowly crossed the silvery water, disrupting the perfect reflection of the birches and diamond willows that grew at the water’s edge.

  Two ravens swooped down, landed on the shore, then hippety-hopped along toward us as if in greeting.

  Rocky left the engine running while he and Dalton unloaded all our gear, then took off his raincoat, then his shirt and boots, and threw them onto the pile, then waded into the water, pushing the plane out from shore.

  “What’s going on?” I asked.

  “Wait here,” he said and climbed into the cockpit.

  “What’s he doing?” I asked Dalton.

  Dalton was scanning the hillside. “I assume he wa
nts the plane where he can see it.”

  “What’s he so paranoid about?”

  He shrugged. “Beats me.”

  I wore a rain hat and rain coat, but the rain was really coming down, cold and misty. Fall in Alaska. Fog enveloped the forest, but hints of treetops poked through on the hillside. I pulled my coat closer, slid my gloved hands into the pockets.

  Dalton turned to me. “Hey, listen about last night—”

  “Forget it,” I said. “Let’s just do this thing and go home.”

  I snugged my coat up closer around my neck.

  Dalton looked away. “Hey, look at that.”

  A blur of brown feathers dropped from the sky—an eagle, its feet stretched out beneath, talons ready to grip. Below, a squirrel darted behind a rock. The eagle arched its powerful wings, slowing its descent, just as the squirrel burrowed in, but its tail was still hanging out, vulnerable. The eagle snatched ahold and flapped, once, twice, and lifted into the air again, the squirrel dangling in its grasp.

  The squirrel let out a shriek and twisted and dropped to the rocks below. With a flip, it was running again for a larger rock to hide behind and hunkered down.

  The eagle, trying to change direction at such low altitude, fluttered and spun before landing, its sharp eyes fixed on the location of the squirrel.

  The squirrel made a run for it. I winced. You were safe where you were!

  With a whoosh of his enormous wings, the eagle lifted and pounced, this time snatching up the squirrel about the belly. He didn’t have a chance. His little feet swayed, lifeless in the eagle’s grasp as it flapped hard to get airborne again, then flew back to its perch among the treetops.

  An incredible silence descended on us. Rocky had set an anchor and cut the engine. The sounds of the forest—the glock-glock of a raven in the distance, the patter of raindrops hitting leaves—were all enveloping, like being wrapped in a blanket of nature.

  We turned toward the lake and watched Rocky swim back to the gravel beach.

  “That water is ice cold,” I said as he trudged over the pebbled shoreline in bare feet, water sloshing down his camo pants.

  “It’s okay,” he said through clenched teeth, then paused long enough to look me right in the eyes. “I’m fierce. Really. You’ll see.”

  Dalton and I exchanged a glance. Uh…weird.

  He put his shirt back on, slid his raincoat and boots on, slung his duffle bag over his shoulder, his rifle case strapped to it, then from a canvas bag, he pulled out a modern, compact crossbow outfitted with a hefty scope. It looked like something The Green Arrow would carry.

  “Sweet,” Dalton said, admiring the weapon. “Is that the new Carbon Express?”

  Rocky nodded, barely acknowledging Dalton.

  “You use carbon fiber arrows?”

  Rocky ignored him altogether.

  “Whew,” Dalton continued anyway. “That thing is accurate as hell. Dude, you could put one right between a bear’s eyes.”

  Rocky paused, looked at Dalton, resigned, as though dealing with him pushed Rocky to the edge of his patience. “Ptarmigan. For dinner,” he said, annoyed. “We don’t need to draw any unwanted attention firing a gun.”

  “You’re going to shoot birds with that?” Dalton said with awe.

  Ptarmigan are large grouse that provide an exciting challenge for hunters. They lift off abruptly and fly erratically.

  Rocky turned to me. “Let’s go,” he said and took off, pushing through the alder-brush like he had something to prove.

  Suddenly I was glad Dalton was with me. He was right. Something was off about this guy.

  I hefted my backpack. “I guess we follow him.”

  Rocky led us through the thick tangle of alders that lined the lake, branches scrapping at my jacket and snagging at every seam, until finally we emerged in a forest of old growth trees. The terrain reminded me in some ways of the steamy jungle in the Philippines, though the temperature here was seventy degrees cooler. Beneath the dark canopy of spruce and juniper, willow and birch, the rain still found a way in.

  We slowly made our way over deadfall covered in moss and slick with water, pushing through blueberry bushes and devil’s club and many kinds of ferns, the rain pitter-pattering on my hat, drowning out the sounds of the forest.

  It was rough going with the heavy pack, but Rocky never slowed, never even looked back. Usually, I wouldn’t bother to try to keep up. Pacing is important and being in the elements, especially rain, presents risks that otherwise wouldn’t be an issue. If I hiked too fast and got sweaty underneath my raincoat, I’d get cold later when I stopped. If I unzipped my coat so I wouldn’t get too warm, I’d get wet anyway from the rain.

  But today, I didn’t want to lose sight of Rocky. So we climbed upward at a pace that, I admit, made me winded. Dalton stayed with me and I could tell he wondered why Rocky forged ahead without checking on us, but neither of us said anything.

  Finally, I emerged from the trees at an abrupt drop-off. Thirty feet below, a river gushed through a narrow gorge, then widened, tumbling over rocks and around boulders, making its way to the lake. Rocky waited near a log that had fallen over the gorge and lodged between stone ledges, forming a bridge that spanned the twenty-foot gap.

  “Is this the only place to cross?” I asked. The log seemed firmly planted but was wet with the rain.

  He nodded and held out his hand for me.

  “Oh, thanks, but—” I held up my hands “—I need to balance.” With my arms spread out to either side like an airplane, I shuffled across.

  As soon as I stepped foot on the other side, Rocky was right behind me. I swung around, my eyes wide.

  “Good,” he said and passed me by, continuing on at the previous pace.

  Good?

  Dalton came along side me. “What’d he say?”

  I shrugged. “Good.”

  “Good?” He shook his head. “This guy’s something else.”

  I grinned. “Maybe he’s the Kushtaka.”

  “The what?”

  “It’s a Tlingit legend. Kushtaka is a half-human, half-otter shapeshifter, a deceptive spirit that lures unwary adventurers to their doom, kind of like the sirens of Homer's Odyssey. He melds with the fog and snatches souls from the wilderness.”

  “I buy that.”

  I smirked.

  On this side of the gorge, the trees gave way to meadow with rocky patches covered in mosses and lichens of varied greens and textures. Red bunchberries stood out from their broad-leaved plants. This was terrain in which we could more easily keep Rocky in sight. The fog had lifted some as well and the rain had stopped.

  Not far, we found him crouched in the grass, pointing to something on the ground.

  “Bear,” he said and I realized it was scat he was pointing at. Next to it, in the wet soil, a platter-sized footprint remained. “Not long ago. Maybe an hour.”

  Dalton and I scanned the hillside.

  Rocky laughed. Actually, more like a sarcastic huff. “You make so much noise, any respectable animal is already miles from here.” He stood back up, adjusted his pack on his shoulders, and continued on.

  Dalton let him get several yards away before leaning in to whisper to me. “Which is it? Is he trying to impress us or insult us?”

  “I’m not sure he knows.”

  Dalton crouched down and held his hand to the print. The bear’s track was nearly twice the size of his hand with his fingers spread wide.

  A draft of cool air whispered over the hilltop. “Let’s keep moving,” he said.

  I agreed.

  Over the next rise, we came to a halt. Rocky was up ahead. He’d dropped his pack and had the crossbow in hand, stalking something in the bushes. Whoosh—a flock of birds took flight. Ptarmigan. Rocky let an arrow fly and one dropped with a thump. He had a second arrow loaded and drawn so fast, the birds were still in range. He fired and a second bird fell from the sky.

  “Holy crap,” I said to Dalton.

  “Holy crap is ri
ght. I’ve never seen anyone shoot like that.”

  “When Townsend said he was the best, I guess he meant it.”

  “The man’s got skills,” he said, genuinely impressed.

  Rocky pulled the arrows from the birds, wiped them off in the wet grass, and carefully placed them back in the quiver. He held one of the birds by the neck, ripped it open at the wound site, peeling back its skin, shoved his thumbs inside, tore the breast meat out and tossed what was left on the ground. He did the same with the second bird, tucked the meat in a plastic sack, then hefted his pack once again and set off. Without one word to us.

  “Hey Rocky,” I shouted after him. “That was pretty amazing. How’d you learn to shoot like that?”

  He came to a halt, slowly turned around, stood tall with a smug pride. “I could show you.”

  “Would you?” Whatever, dude.

  He set his pack down and held the crossbow out for me. I dropped my pack and approached him, but as I took hold of the bow, he kept a firm grasp on it and eased beside me. “Here, like this,” he said, placing his hand over mine, making sure I held it properly.

  “I get it,” I said.

  The thing had two grips on the bottom like an assault rifle. I positioned the butt against my shoulder, my right finger on the trigger and looked through the scope.

  “It’s just like shooting a gun. Just as accurate too. I keep an arrow loaded all the time.”

  “May I?” I said, gesturing toward a rotting, moss-covered stump about thirty yards away.

  He hesitated. It might damage an arrow. Then he smiled. “Sure. For you.”

  I raised the weapon, both hands on the grips, bringing the sights in on the stump. I eased back the trigger and twang, the arrow released with the force of a bullet. A split second later, smack, it lodged in the soft stump.

  “Wow, that is accurate,” I said, genuinely impressed. “Dalton, you should give it a try.”

  “Well, it’s not a toy,” Rocky said, snatching it back from me. He stomped away, pulled the arrow from the stump, then continued on without looking back.