Grizzly Season

by S. W. Lauden

  “What’s the name?”

  “I just texted it to you.”

  Greg’s phone was back at the house, along with Kristen and a warm shower. He waited until Maggie was gone before he got up to jog home.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Mark Lathrop. That was the name Maggie texted Greg the night before. He let it roll around in his head as he drove up the mountain Saturday morning. He’d made the trip so many times that he barely paid attention, speeding through the dangerous curves. The lush pines and stunning vistas were just a brightly colored blur out his window. It gave him plenty of time to consider what he’d found out about her mysterious new business partner. It wasn’t much.

  From what he could gather, Lathrop was a former Hollywood mover and shaker. His name used to pop up in entertainment industry trade magazines a decade ago, but nothing more recent than that. He was a hotshot talent agent back then, with a stable of rising film and music stars, until he quietly left the business. There were no news stories about the man, or the kind of business he was conducting afterwards. Whatever Lathrop had gotten into, he was successful enough to buy a multi-million dollar house on the beach in South Bay last year. He also owned a massive yacht, judging by the few pictures Greg found online.

  Greg turned his attention to what trails he was going to search that day. He wouldn’t be able to do any more research on Lathrop until he got home Sunday night, anyway. His phone got zero reception in the mountains, and there was no computer at his cabin. He parked the car and went in through the back door. His mountain bike was still there in the kitchen, unlocked and untouched. He pulled it outside and strapped his backpack on. His Glock and a canteen were the heaviest things he carried with him on these trips. So far, the canteen was the only one of the two that he ever managed to empty.

  Greg pedaled hard from the moment he climbed onto his bike. He had a lot of ground to cover in less than forty-eight hours. His first stop would be at Pete’s Trading Post—a combination biker bar and mini market not far from his cabin. It was the only place to go for supplies, or a plate of food, outside of a little town called Deer Springs.

  Greg had already been through Deer Springs a few times in his search, but came up empty handed. Pete’s, on the other hand, was always the best place to get the latest local gossip. The place definitely had a seedy vibe, but they made decent burgers and a few cute waitresses.

  He and Marco only went there a couple times in the previous months because it was too big of a temptation for his recently sober sidekick. The question of Greg’s sobriety never factored into that decision, but was no more stable than Marco’s. He’d already fallen off the wagon once in the last year, leaving him to question whether he really needed to be sober at all.

  Greg was still wrestling with that thought when he arrived at Pete’s thirty minutes later. He was already sweating and slightly winded. It always took him a few hours to get used to the thin air at this altitude. The smell of pine needles and wildflowers mingled together with stale beer and barbecue as Greg walked up. The parking lot looked like an import motorcycle dealership on the weekends. Guys of all ages would be strutting around in their colorful leathers, drinking pitchers of beer and smoking cigarettes.

  The place was more of a Harley Davidson hangout when Greg’s dad used to bring him and his brother here as kids. Back then, you saw more fat bikers beating each other to death with chains rather than wearing brightly colored helmets. Greg couldn’t decide which version of Pete’s he liked better as he took a stool at the bar and ordered coffee.

  One thing that hadn’t changed since the good old days was the music. ZZ Top, Bad Company and Led Zeppelin still ruled the jukebox, even if most of the clientele were still in diapers when those records had come out. It provided the perfect soundtrack for the motorcycle road races that filled every flat screen on the walls. A couple of young guys next to him started cheering when one of the riders lost control of his bike. It went cartwheeling off, while the rider slid along the slick black asphalt. The guy nearest Greg slapped him on the shoulder and started screaming in his face.

  “Holy shit, bro! Did you see that?”

  He was a black kid with short, kinky dreads and a lightly freckled face. There was a wide smile spread across his face. Greg wasn’t sure how to respond. He was never one to sit around watching surfer wipe out videos, although millions of them were posted online.

  “That was a pretty good one. You ever crash like that?”

  “Hell no, but I lost a brother to an accident.”

  Greg knew a thing or two about losing a brother. The pain still felt like an open wound whenever he let himself think about it. Especially now that Officer Bob had reopened the investigation into Tim’s death. It seemed more real up here in the mountains, the place where they had spent so many summers together as kids.

  Greg cleared his throat to speak.

  “Sorry for your loss.”

  “It’s all good. It was a few years ago now.”

  Greg turned to face his new friend.

  “You ride up here a lot?”

  “Almost every weekend, unless I have to work.”

  “Oh yeah? What do you do?”

  “This and that. Sales, mostly.”

  The kid smiled. Greg gave a knowing nod. He saw a small opening and decided to take it.

  “You ever come across something called ‘Grizzly Bear’ in your line of work?”

  The smile flickered, but only for a second.

  “You a cop or something?”

  “Nope. I’m a bartender. Place called Eddie’s by the beach.”

  It wasn’t a lie, but it felt like one. At least the kid seemed convinced.

  “I’ve heard of that place. Punk club, right? That’s cool. What’s your name?”

  “Greg.”

  “Tommy.”

  Greg went in for a handshake, but it ended up a fist bump.

  “No offense, but what’s a dude your age doing working at a place like that?”

  “I work the day shift. Easier on the ears. So?”

  “What? Grizzly Bear? I’ve heard about that shit, but I thought it was a rumor. Haven’t personally seen any. You?”

  “Nope. Just heard the rumors, too.”

  Tommy’s friends started screaming again. The kid spun around to look up at the TV screen. Greg grabbed his coffee mug and went out onto the patio. He wanted to see what else he could find out.

  A drunken speed-demon was doing donuts on his motorcycle in the parking lot. Thick clouds of rubbery smoke filled the air as Greg tried to navigate through the crowd. He’d almost reached the back when a waitress raced by with a tray of empty glasses. Her auburn hair was pulled up in a bun, exposing sunburned shoulders under a lacy halter-top. She had a small, black mole on her left cheek, like a 1920s starlet. Greg spotted the tattoo on her left shoulder blade, but couldn’t make out what it was.

  “Excuse me. Hey!”

  She looked back with a sneer before disappearing into the kitchen. Greg tried to follow, but the crowd closed in behind her. He tried to squeeze through until a big hand was planted firmly on his chest.

  “Where do you think you’re going?”

  He had thick grey hair tied back in a ponytail. A folded red bandana covered his entire forehead and most of his eyebrows. His beard was almost yellow where it sprouted from red cheeks and around his meaty lips.

  Greg tried to squeeze by him.

  “I need to talk to that waitress.”

  “You and half the guys here. You’ll have to wait until she comes back out. This entrance is for employees only.”

  “Fair enough. You work here?”

  “Try not to. I own the place.”

  He sized Greg up for a moment before disappearing through the same door as the waitress. Greg guessed that a guy like that could spot a former cop from several miles away. The chances
were pretty slim that the waitress would be coming back out onto the patio anytime soon. He decided his best bet was to go back inside and try to catch her there.

  It wasn’t any easier getting through the crowd on the return trip. He finally made it out to the parking lot just in time to see the waitress climb onto the back of a motorcycle. She and the driver went screaming off down the road. They were both wearing helmets so Greg couldn’t see their faces, but her tattoo was unmistakable. It was a bear paw, just like Kristen’s. Greg could sense that he was getting closer to finding Magnus again, but it wasn’t happening fast enough.

  Greg turned to see the owner coming outside with a baseball bat in his fist. A couple of bartenders were right behind him. Greg took the hint and bolted for his bike. He doubted they would chase him if he left on his own, but he couldn’t be sure. The wind felt good on his face as he sped down the mountain road toward the trailhead. It was time to resume the search for Marco.

  ›

  It was close to dusk. Greg had been pedaling deeper into the forest all afternoon. He was making his way up a scrubby slope, trying not to think about the shooting pains in his thighs and calves, when he heard the gunshot. It was a single pop, far away and not easy to pinpoint, but it was unmistakable. He dropped his bike to the ground and crouched down to listen. When nothing happened for five minutes he climbed back on and pedaled to the top of the hill.

  Greg pulled the map out of his backpack. He’d already pedaled around Grizzly Flats again in case there was any new activity. That was a couple of hours ago, and the search came up empty, as usual. Now he was further East on the Pacific Crest trail than he had ever gone before. Most weekends he would make it back to crash in the cabin on Saturday night, but he had a feeling that he might be sleeping outdoors tonight. He was glad his canteen was still half full and that he had trail mix and beef jerky to snack on.

  He knew in his heart that there was a slim chance he would ever find Marco out here. A guy like Magnus was too smart to go and set up shop in the same neck of the woods, especially when so many people were looking for him. But he also knew that Magnus was probably desperate and low on supplies. Very few of the motorcycles had gotten out of Grizzly Flats the night of the raid, which meant that almost everything had burned. Even if they managed to stretch what they had with them for this long, there was a good chance that his men would turn up at Pete’s, before long. Or maybe that’s what the waitress was doing there, smuggling supplies to wherever they were hiding out. That meant Greg only had to find the trails that they were using to get in and out. Then he might be able to figure out, once and for all, if Marco was alive. He thought he owed his friend at least that much.

  The sky was orange in the west where the sun was going down. A wide valley stretched out before him. There was a dry streambed that sloped downward, winding through a thicket of boulders, Manzanita and fallen trees. Definitely not the kind of terrain he wanted to ride down in the dark. He decided to make his camp for the night.

  Greg fished his phone from the pack. The thing was useless for any kind of communication out here, but it was still a great camera. He snapped several shots, including a panorama of the entire valley below. His stomach was grumbling by the time he finished.

  He wolfed down a couple handfuls of trail mix and took a big gulp of water before putting it all away. He still had the same amount of ground to cover the next day, so he had to ration his supplies. His leg muscles were seizing up, but he thought everything would be fine after he got a good night’s rest. He just had to make sure not to get lost on the way back.

  He hid his bike in the chaparral and slipped into a camouflage rain poncho he kept in his pack. Then he climbed the nearest tree. The lightweight nylon camping hammock he always carried made a good bed in a pinch. He tied the ropes between two thick branches and slipped inside. There was enough room in the cocoon for him on one end and his pack on the other.

  Greg was always amazed at how the littlest noises sounded so loud in wide-open spaces. Every branch that fell was a bear ready to attack. Every twig that snapped was Magnus and his guards coming to find him. He finally tried counting stars to fall asleep.

  He woke up several hours later, sometime before dawn. A strange noise had startled him, something that sounded like voices. Greg lay absolutely still in his hammock waiting to see if it was just a dream. He was about to write it off to an overactive imagination when he heard a woman laugh. It sounded like she was coming up the hill behind him, the same way he’d come the day before. Then he heard other people talking—at least two women and a few men.

  Greg sat up and pulled the Glock from his pack. If these were people from Magnus’s crew, then he knew they would be armed too. He eased back and tried to control his breathing. He could feel his heart practically beating through his chest as they came closer. Two girls arrived first, passing under the tree next to his.

  “Nina. Hey, wait up. My flashlight batteries just went dead. I can’t see anything.”

  “Use the ones from your vibrator.”

  “Who needs a vibrator when you’ve got five hot guys with you? That new recruit’s really cute.”

  “I guess so, if you like them stupid.”

  “I’ll take hot and stupid over the opposite any day.”

  They both laughed and kept moving. Greg did the math in his head. He was totally outnumbered, even if he got the drop on them. And he couldn’t follow them in the dark and risk getting caught. That wouldn’t be good for him or Marco. He’d just have to let them pass, but he hoped he’d overhear something useful from the guys. It felt like hours passed before they arrived.

  “Is this the right way?”

  “The map says to come over the hill and follow the stream, but I don’t hear any water.”

  “We’re in a drought, dipshit. Just head for the rocks over there.”

  “Damn, these packs are heavy. What’s in them anyway?”

  “No idea. Red said he’d shoot us himself if we tried to pick the locks.”

  “Stop complaining, you two. Magnus is gonna think we’re superheroes when we show up with all these supplies. We’ll have our choice of Ursulas for the next couple of weeks.”

  “I know, I know. How much further is it?”

  “About another hour or so. Maybe a little more. But only if you stop slowing us down.”

  The voices started to fade as they made their way down the hill. Greg waited until it was silent again before he finally exhaled. His fingers cramped from gripping the Glock so hard. It was almost sunrise when he sat up to have a look around.

  Greg was already on his bike and headed back to the cabin when the sun came up. Whenever he made a turn, he tore a small strip off of his rain poncho and tied it to a tree branch. It was a risk he had to take if he wanted to point the Sheriff’s Department in the right direction.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The new recruits arrived a little after sunrise. Marco watched all seven of them drop their packs and wait for praise from Magnus. The crazy son of a bitch immediately attacked them instead.

  “You were supposed to be here two days ago.” One of the guys stepped forward. He didn’t look any older or more experienced than the others, but he had balls; Marco had to give him that.

  “Red told us to wait. Said the Sheriff’s Department was poking around again.”

  Magnus was practically growling now.

  “You don’t work for Red, do you? We almost died out here waiting for this shipment to arrive.”

  Magnus waved a couple of guards over. They set their guns down and turned the wheels on the combination locks. A few cartons of cigarettes tumbled out of the first one they opened, followed by bundles of cash. The kid who had carried that one shook his head in disbelief. Marco couldn’t imagine what it felt like to miss such a golden opportunity.

  The next few packs had mostly soap, toilet paper and toothbrushes; then came
the freeze-dried military rations and cartons of cigarettes. It was obvious that Magnus was most excited about the seventh pack. He opened that one himself, unleashing a flood of pill bottles. A couple of them rolled across the dirt before Magnus quickly scooped them up.

  Two of the guards grabbed the rest of the supplies and took them away. Magnus and his remaining crew turned to face the mules that had brought them the supplies.

  “You girls look like you could use a nap. Why don’t you head over to my tent and get yourselves cleaned up?”

  A guard escorted the women away, which left only the five guys.

  “As for you, breakfast will be ready in a few minutes. Go claim a spot in one of the tents and wait for further instructions. But don’t get too comfortable. There’s work to do.”

  They all started walking in the direction that Magnus had pointed. All except for the one who had been acting like he was their leader. He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper.

  “I’ve got a message for you. From Red.”

  Magnus took it from his trembling hand and unfolded it. His eyes went wide as he scanned the page. His face was contorted with rage by the time he’d reached the bottom.

  “You look familiar.”

  “My name’s—”

  “I don’t give a shit what your name is. Where do I know you from?”

  “I lived at Grizzly Flats for a few months last year.”

  If Magnus recognized the kid, he wasn’t letting on.

  “I’m guessing you didn’t read this message before you delivered it to me.”

  “Course not. He just said it was important and that I should hand directly to you.”

  Magnus waved the crumpled paper in front of his ashen face. “According to this, Red wants to do a little trading. Problem is, what he’s offering already belongs to me.”

  The messenger’s voice was shaky now, pleading.

  “What? I swear I had no idea. Send me back with a message of your own.”