The Chief Superintendent began to walk away, then he turned back to fire one last salvo.
“Oh, and Goodhead?”
“Sir?”
“Since you are so interested in details, I have an assignment I’d like you to handle personally.”
That’s all it took and Inspector Goodhead was on a plane. This was the retaliation, an assignment to this crash site in the middle of nowhere in the dead of winter.
Regardless of the questionable merits of the case, Chuck accepted the mission with appropriate professional aplomb and dignity. The flight schedule didn’t give him much time to prepare for the trip, and he was just able to throw together the needed belongings and race to the airport before the plane departed.
The pilot, one Danny “the Wings” Jones-McIntyre, had seemed dubious when the inspector presented his ID and insisted on passage. Nonetheless, he grudgingly accepted the surprise passenger onboard once he had extorted a fee that would have to be explained when Chuck turned in his expense account.
And then the bush pilot proceeded to make the flight a living hell for his reluctant passenger.
Danny the Wings was messing with him during their entire flight to McIntyre’s Gulch, and Chuck suspected that it was actual hostility and not just a misplaced sense of humor that prompted these actions. The jokes were too cruel to be casual goofing off. There was the point at which they were flying over the Pembina Mountain Range and Danny pretended to be losing altitude. Then there was the time over Lake Winnipeg when the pilot sent the plane into a nosedive and screamed that he was out of control and they were going to crash. Each incident concluded with the Wings regaining control of the aircraft and laughing uproariously at his little joke, or at the Mountie.
Chuck tried to take it in stride, but things weren’t made any better by the occasional sputtering of the plane and sounds like the engine had cut out, which the Wings assured him was normal—feathering, he called it—and besides, they had two engines. What were the odds of both failing? But would the Mountie just look out of his window and see if any ice was building on the wing? Ice was a terrible thing and could happen so quickly.
Chuck knew the subject was just another malicious way to torment him, but he found himself glancing out of the window every minute or so, looking for telltale ice or frost.
In between aerobatic stunts and wing checks, Chuck was presented with some of the most majestic views of Lake Winnipeg and its distant surroundings that he had ever seen in his life. The unhindered snow white of the landscape was sublime. The Mountie found himself lulled into periods of enchantment in between the episodes of utter terror.
Of course, the genuine risks didn’t begin until their landing in McIntyre’s Gulch. The rest of the trip had seemed like a nasty game, juvenile but essentially harmless. Chuck soon came to question the pilot’s very sanity.
“You know, used to be that all bush airstrips were laid right through the center of town where it was most convenient for everyone. Then lots of places started getting trucks and snowmobiles, and once travel got easier some government lackey decided that planes should land outside of town, all in the name of public safety, which is a load of crap.”
Making a sharp bank over a frozen lake, the Wings pointed out the tiny town lying in the lee of a large mountain. The site was hard to make out because of the snow and deep shadows. There appeared to only be a handful of buildings constituting the township of McIntyre’s Gulch, most of them buried in ice, which made their individual forms hard to discern. It was a desolate place and Chuck wondered what sort of people would choose to live there.
“But enough sightseeing. Best get on with it, eh?” the Wings said.
Chuck had thought that they were doing a flyover, perhaps alerting the townsfolk that the supplies were coming in, and then they would land on the lake where the Wings assured him there was a kind of landing light and an old World War Two radio beacon, but the Wings made a nose dive toward Main Street, laughing as they plummeted toward certain doom.
Inspector Goodhead, though a calm man and in many ways a brave one, hadn’t expected the landing to take place on the main street of town. Their descent between the buildings sent chills up his spine but fortunately tightened his throat until he couldn’t actually scream. Adding particular terror to the incident was the fact that they almost ran into a rusty, old pickup that was in the process of rattling to a halt before the local mercantile during their landing. Only the driver’s reflexes and a space between two stunted trees saved them from a collision. Regardless of the close shave, they touched down without incident, the worst injury being to the armrests by the Mountie’s seat that now had nail-size gouges in them.
By the time the Mountie unclamped his cramping hands and clambered from the passenger seat of the plane, he was about ready to swear off air flight for a lifetime. Bending over in the snow by the side of the road to relieve himself of his hasty breakfast, the Wings passed by behind, dropping the Mountie’s single suitcase in the snow beside him and patting him on the back in mock sympathy.
“Don’t sweat it, Mountie. You’re safe now that you’re on the ground. Just watch out for bears.”
“You know, I could cite you for multiple infractions of the air safety code, not to mention reckless endangerment in your choice of landing site. There are probably local ordinances against this stunt too.” His voice was weak.
“Why, I rather doubt that. Don’t you know that that’s why we live in McIntyre’s Gulch, Mountie? We never got around to passing those pesky air safety restrictions. Very few local ordinances about anything, so we don’t have to deal with such city nonsense,” the Wings assured him, walking away to find someone to help him unload the plane.
Chuck would have argued, but he suspected that Danny Jones-McIntyre was speaking the truth. At the moment, he wished that he was also not bound by regulations, because he would have liked to punch Danny the Wings in the nose.
“Hey, Wings,” called a red-haired man with an enormous beard that reached almost to his belly. “You got my Gruyere cheese this time?”
“Yes, and it stinks to high heaven.”
“Good! I’ll help you unload in a moment.” The bearded man nodded at the Mountie but said nothing, and the Wings didn’t introduce them.
Chuck straightened and drew in a breath of cold air, hoping the gastronomic rebellion was over.
As the view from the air suggested, the township of McIntyre’s Gulch proved to be little more than a scattering of buildings around a main thoroughfare that was about as wide as a one-way street and wasn’t plowed nearly enough, in fact, maybe not at all. Chuck looked up from the mess that he’d left in the street to see that whatever citizenry there was on the makeshift tarmac were all staring his way, looking either amused or hostile. Wiping the bile from his face with his gloved hand, he stood upright, hoisted his duffel bag, and walked to the nearest building in town. This proved to be the Lonesome Moose, the local tavern.
Few of the scattered tables in the place were occupied. The first thing he noticed amongst the rustic wood planking was the entire front half of a moose mounted over the plank bar. Walking up to the counter, he placed his order in a slightly stronger voice and wondered if he had packed any aspirin.
“A glass of water, please.”
“Water?” a tall, burly man replied blankly. He also had red hair. “We don’t serve water in these parts. If you want yourself some water, step outside and grab yourself a handful of snow.”
Several of the other clientele in the bar laughed at the bartender’s joke. Chuck decided to use a little legal muscle instead of playing along. Retrieving his badge from his inside coat pocket, he flashed it and tried again.
“I’ll have a glass of water,” the Mountie repeated. “And two aspirin, if you have any.”
The man behind the counter was large and bear-like, just short of being fat. Of course, Officer Goodhead was no lightweight himself. He stood six feet tall, but that left him a good six inches shorter th
an his counterpart behind the bar. He weighed in at 180 pounds of firm muscle, and that was at least 100 pounds lighter than the behemoth tending bar. The barkeep had wild red hair, as had the Wings and the other man in the street, while the inspector’s hair was fair. The red on his head continued into the barkeep’s wooly beard, which Chuck assumed also matched the hair on his back and belly. The man was a model for Sasquatch.
Looking around the bar, Chuck realized that there were a lot of redheads in town. In fact, they were all redheads. Red hair is the rarest color among humans, and he began to wonder how inbred McIntyre’s Gulch really was.
Chuck tried to be pleasant and agreeable on the job when possible, but he would be willing to sacrifice manners to establish his position of authority amongst the strange locals when they were overtly hostile. And all over a glass of water. What was wrong with these people?
“Aye, water and willow bark it is,” the bartender said, raising his palms from the counter to show that he wanted no trouble. Chuck had the feeling he was more amused than threatened.
The others in the saloon murmured under their breaths, no doubt complaining about the intrusion of some citified, badge-wielding Mountie into their rural way of life. Regardless, Chuck dropped his bag on the floor, had himself a seat on a stool, and took a look around the saloon while he nursed his iceless water. The handful of others in the bar glared at him warily while talking amongst themselves in low voices. Officer Goodhead couldn’t help but wonder how many of them were planning his demise should he be foolish enough to step alone into the alley out back. And that was odd. Really, really odd. Some small towns were xenophobic, but he had never run into any place that expressed their hostility to this degree without any provocation.
“Say, you wouldn’t happen to know where I could find Mayor McIntyre, would you?” the Mountie finally asked of the barkeep.
“Aye, that would be me, eh,” the man behind the bar replied with evident signs of unease in both his voice and expression.
It was Chuck’s lucky day.
“You’re the one who called in the crash?”
“Aye, yeah, that would be me as well.”
The mayor looked around like he was hoping somebody would interrupt them. Chuck’s inner barometer began to twitch. He almost always knew when someone was lying to him. “We didn’t expect anyone here so soon what with the storm coming on.”
“Well, we’re surprisingly efficient sometimes. I’ve been sent here to investigate the crash site, gather what information I can, and report back to headquarters in Winnipeg as soon as possible. Mind if I ask you a few questions?”
Mayor McIntyre paused for a moment, looking decidedly uncomfortable. The others in the bar watched in silence as the interview commenced.
“Aye, go ahead and shoot. I mean, speak your piece.”
“According to the report I received, you were the one who found the downed plane. Is that correct?”
“Aye.” He was lying.
“And it was covered in snow since you’ve just had a heavy snowfall recently?”
The barkeep nodded his head as he kept his eyes turned away to the simple task of cleaning a glass that was already spotless.
“How was it that you were able to spot the plane if it was covered in snow? I take it that the location is remote?”
The barkeep thought for a moment.
“Well, I must have seen a piece of her sticking up out of the snow, hadn’t I?”
“Aye, you must have. So are you saying that’s what happened?”
“Aye.” Another lie.
“That was very observant of you. Since it was a deep snow.”
The barkeep shrugged as he tried to ignore the Mountie by picking up a new glass to clean.
“Look, do you mind stopping what you’re doing and paying attention to our conversation? After all, I came a long way to see you today. The least you can do is show me the common courtesy of paying attention.”
The mayor of McIntyre’s Gulch looked up and shot the Mountie a hateful look that could have melted iron through its ferocity. Chuck wondered if he had pushed too far too fast. There was something damn weird about this town. He decided to keep on talking before his interviewee had a conniption on him.
“By the way, what were you doing out on the snow pack that day? The weather has been beastly.”
“I was having myself a walk after the storm,” the man said awkwardly.
Chuck looked at the barkeep’s well-padded body and had some doubts about him going out for a stroll.
“Do you often go for walks in the… what was it, morning or afternoon?” the Mountie asked, reaching into an outside pocket of his duffel bag for a copy of the report.
“Morning.”
“Nope, wrong again,” the Mountie declared, eyeing the report. “When you called in you reported finding the plane in the afternoon.”
Mayor McIntyre’s eyes shot around as if he was looking for someone to come to his assistance. Murmurings sprinkled with fierce words sprang up from the others in the bar.
“Mayor, are you sure you wouldn’t like to clarify some of the facts in your report before we move on to the tougher questions?”
The mayor looked away again; obviously, something was chewing at him.
“Go ahead and tell him,” a female voice called from somewhere behind them in the bar.
The mayor looked up and the Mountie swung around on his seat. What they both observed was a pretty young woman dressed in a wool skirt of gray and red plaid and a heavy, cable knit sweater the color of Irish oatmeal. She too had the shock of red hair that for some reason seemed to be predominant in this region, though on her it was pretty and her expression was less flushed and belligerent than on the men he’d met.
“Hello, Officer,” she said, stepping up to the bar and extending a hand in a friendly manner that had so far been absent in the locals. Her gaze was candid. Too candid and his barometer began inching upward again. “I’m Judy McIntyre, known as the Flowers around these parts. Sorry I wasn’t here to greet you in person when you first came in. I was out back checking supplies.”
“Inspector Chuck Goodhead, Royal Canadian Mounted Police,” Chuck offered, shaking her hand since she was civil. She had a good grip for such a delicate looking woman.
“Well, Chuck, you’ll more than likely be called the Mountie around these parts since local folk tend to refer to the job in preference to the person. We’ve too many McIntyres and Joneses to do anything else. Don’t take it personally.”
“I won’t.” At least he wouldn’t show any annoyance. No point in giving clues about his Achilles’ heel. “You could call me Inspector Goodhead.”
“No, only enemies use titles and last names in these parts. Though I can’t blame you for thinking we are hostile. No doubt my lug of a father made you feel as unwelcome as caribou in rutting season from the moment you stepped through those doors. We were just surprised by your arrival and haven’t had a chance to dust off our company manners.”
Mayor McIntyre had remained silent during the entirety of the introductions. At this reference to his manners, or lack thereof, he merely grunted and went back to cleaning glasses. Chuck offered a wry smile in response, charmed in spite of his wariness and certainty that there was more to this situation than anyone was saying.
“Can I offer you a drink? We can do better than water. Perhaps something warm?” the Flowers asked.
Chuck was left with the distinct impression that Judy was trying to distract him from what had quickly become a hostile interrogation of her father. He appreciated the gesture, but opted to remain on subject.
“Tell me what?” the Mountie reminded Judy. His voice was pleasant, his expression bland.
The Flowers smiled again and looked to her father, Big John McIntyre, for support.
“Go ahead. Tell him,” she urged. “T’was you who agreed and you who must do the breaking.”
“I wasn’t the one,” the large man mumbled, somehow managing to sound lik
e a scolded schoolboy.
“The one what?” Chuck asked, confused.
“The one that found the plane,” McIntyre sighed, possibly in relief at finally telling the truth.
“Well, if you didn’t find the plane, then who did? Why were they too shy to call themselves?”
“Well, the lassie has no phone and she’s—”
At that very instant the doors to the saloon flew open and a woman stepped into the room. Though she wore a heavy parka, baggy jeans, and snow boots, Chuck sensed, possibly by her easy movements but more probably through wishful thinking, that she possessed a lithe, athletic body beneath the winter wear. She had a head of beautiful, long red hair which fanned out across her shoulders when she removed her winter cap, shook her head, and strolled up to the bar. Chuck was awestruck. In addition to the gorgeous woman, though he couldn’t be positive since he had been ogling her with all his might, he thought he’d also seen a large wolf come strutting into the tavern by her side and then disappear under a table.
“Slan leat. I saw the Wings’ plane. Did I miss anything while I was gone?” she asked, and then froze in midstride as she caught sight of the stranger sitting at the bar.
“You’re early.”
“And he knows about you finding the plane,” Judy the Flowers said apologetically. “But I told you Dad couldn’t lie to save his life.”
“Well, bloody hell.”
“This is Butterscotch Jones,” Judy said, turning back to the Mountie. “She can take you to the crash site she and the cu found. And if you’re staying over, you’d best bunk with her. We’ve just had our spare room painted and the fumes would poison you. Perhaps you should go now. It gets dark early. If you need a phone, we’ve one here and so far the lines are up.”
He was being gotten rid of. Again. Though the Flowers handled things more politely than his boss.
Butterscotch didn’t gasp aloud at the effrontery of having her home offered to a stranger, but Chuck had the feeling she wanted to. He also remembered that cu meant dog in Gaelic.
“Duin do bheul,” she muttered, confirming his supposition about the language they were speaking, and then called to her dog in English. “Come on, Max.”
Due North Page 4