Due North

by Jackson, Melanie

“Exactly.”

  We walked in silence for a minute or two.

  “So, do your parents live in town?” There was no reason he shouldn’t assume this, but I had the feeling that he had already guessed that they didn’t.

  “Mom died when I was a baby and Dad—well, Dad might as well have died. My grandparents looked after me after Mom passed. They are gone now too.” This was said repressively and for a wonder, it worked. I had some peace and quiet to panic in until we reached town.

  “I am going to drop the body at Doc’s—he’s the house on the right? Big John has a fax machine, so I’ll send in the pilot’s fingerprints and see if we can get an identification from them, or the call numbers on the plane.”

  A fax machine? I had forgotten Big John had one.

  “Okay. There is a fax machine at the pub. If it’s working. Our lines go down a lot in the winter.”

  “Would it be untoward to ask you to dinner? It seems only right that I provide board if you provide my room. And it sounds as though they expect us at the pub.”

  I thought about dinner in the pub and how uncomfortable it would be for everyone. I wasn’t thrilled with an evening of solo conversation though. I decided that it might be best to dilute our interaction for the next few hours.

  “Do you think you’ll be done with your work by six? We could meet at the pub. Maybe play some darts. They should have a good selection on the menu since the Wings brought in supplies.”

  “Thank you. I’ll make it a point to be ready.” He nodded and then began hauling the sled toward the Bones’ house. He had no troubles with the weight. He had allowed me to help so I would feel useful, not because he needed the assistance.

  I wondered what the doc would do with the body. Put it in the garage? His bathtub? How long would it take to thaw?

  Chapter 7: The Mole

  “Oh, hey, Brian. How was your weekend?”

  Brian O’Shay was standing by the water cooler getting himself a drink as the typical traffic of the office passed. He gave it little notice other than an occasional smile and a nod as he quenched his thirst before returning to his cubicle located well back in the north forty.

  Brian was a modern day veal calf, treated little better than the young cows penned in their stalls until the time came for someone to feed on their meat and bones. Only, in this case, Brian was housed in a cubicle, eight by eight, which defined the entirety of his working life. He was far from the nearest window, and even if he put in another twenty years, he’d never have a window of his own.

  Needless to say, Brian was not happy with his work at the Royal Canadian Mounted Police Headquarters in Winnipeg. As he walked back to his cubicle, he smiled at the boss’s secretary. She ignored him, as usual. He couldn’t help but think how he’d love to have that choice piece of meat working under him. He could definitely spend some late night sessions with her.

  Back at his cube, he entered his password to reactivate his terminal. As he did every morning, he performed a cursory scan of the active cases database looking for any new information that may be of interest. It didn’t take long before he came across something that was very interesting indeed.

  It turned out that there was a downed plane just outside the small town of McIntyre’s Gulch, not that far from Winnipeg. Brian read through the summary of the report and then sent a copy to the printer. He dashed to the printer so that he could retrieve his printout before anyone else saw what he was about. Taking the printout with him, he stepped out onto the balcony that overlooked downtown Winnipeg.

  Though signs clearly marked that this was a nonsmoking area, Brian lit up a Marlboro light and inhaled deeply. He performed one more quick scan of the report, ordering his facts, before retrieving his cell phone from his belt and speed-dialing an often used number.

  “United Carryall Services, how may I direct your call?” a pleasant female voice responded.

  “Vladamir, 214,” Brian responded, reciting the pre-agreed upon code phrase from memory.

  Brian puffed at his cigarette and waited.

  “Thank you,” the voice said, and then there was a click and a muted hum followed by ringing as the call was transferred.

  “Speak,” was the simple response he received after the second ring.

  Though the voice on the other end of the line spoke only a single syllable, the accent behind that syllable was so heavy that it was obvious Brian was no longer speaking with a Canadian national.

  “I found something in the active cases database that I thought you’d want to know about.”

  “Tell me,” the voice said in a clearly framed Baltic accent.

  “There’s been a small plane crash near a small town named McIntyre’s Gulch. It’s not far from Winnipeg. The pilot didn’t survive the crash. The report says that the plane was undoubtedly flying under the radar in order to not be spotted. Smugglers are suspected.”

  “How long ago?”

  “The plane was found three days ago. An inspector by the name of Horace Goodhead has been dispatched to the crash site. He will arrive sometime today. He must have done something to piss off his District Commander to receive such a shit assignment,” Brian speculated.

  “Did they find anything inside the plane?”

  “No. Nothing was reported other than the dead body.”

  There was an awkward pause in the conversation.

  “Is that all?”

  “Isn’t that enough?” Brian quipped, becoming irritated at the lack of appreciation evident in the listener’s voice.

  The line went dead.

  “Well, fuck you too, mister,” Brian said, slapping the phone shut and reattaching it to his belt.

  He took another deep drag on his cigarette as he tried to calm down.

  “Hey, Brian,” a young man said as he stepped out onto the balcony. “You going to the hockey game tonight?”

  “Wouldn’t miss it.”

  “Need a ride?”

  “No, I’ll meet you boys there.”

  The intruder was about to leave Brian in peace when he turned back.

  “By the way, you’re not supposed to be smoking out here,” he pointed out.

  “Oh, yeah. Thanks,” Brian replied, dropping the cigarette and snuffing it out with the heel of his shoe. “I keep forgetting.” You obnoxious prick, he wanted to add.

  The interloper retreated back into the building, and Brian smiled while leaning against the rail and looking out over the city. The information he’d just relayed could have put as much as 5k into his pocket. Who knows, he thought. Maybe he’d use some of that cash to take out the boss’s skirt and show her a good time.

  Brian laughed to himself as he reached into his coat pocket, retrieved another cigarette, and lit up.

  Chapter 8: The Dinner

  We were at an obscure table near the kitchen. No one wanted to sit next to us, but I could feel the weight of all the indirect attention we were getting. Half the town had turned out for dinner, even though the storm was due any minute and they would be heading home shortly.

  I had had hours to come up with a brilliant plan to deflect the Mountie’s questions but hadn’t come up with anything. He had also beaten me in straight sets at darts.

  “Why are you here?” I asked Inspector Goodhead—Chuck, I mean. The informality was not coming naturally, though I found that I had a reluctant liking for my uninvited guest. There I was, sitting down to dinner with an officer of the law and not even thinking of running away. It was a first. Let’s hear it for personal growth.

  He blinked.

  “You called me to the crash.”

  “No, I mean, why you? We didn’t know about the stabbing when we called. We didn’t ask for an inspector, just someone to get the body and give it back to his family. They don’t usually send inspectors to accidents, do they?”

  “Ah,” he cleared his throat. “Generally speaking, that is true. I fear that this time it’s a matter of revenge.”

  “On us?” I asked, confused.


  “No, on me. I embarrassed my boss and made him look like an idiot. On the evening news. And perhaps I suggested a few too many ways that he could improve department efficiency. At the moment I am persona non grata.”

  “Is he an idiot?” I asked curiously.

  “He’s my superior,” Chuck said sternly.

  “I rather doubt that,” I muttered and we shared a rare, small smile.

  Why did I like him? There was no future in it and a lot of danger.

  “Do you think this establishment runs to wine?” Chuck asked.

  “Yes, with screw tops mostly,” I warned him.

  “Should we risk it?”

  “Not on my account. I don’t drink.”

  “Puritanism?” he guessed.

  “No, low alcohol tolerance. Half a glass and I’d be out skinny-skiing or something dumb.”

  “And that would be a bad thing?”

  “In this weather? With you around ready to arrest me for drunk and disorderly?”

  “A man can only hope.”

  He was teasing me again. It left me feeling baffled. It didn’t match his rather by-the-book manner he used most of the time.

  “I’m guessing there are no liquor laws here.”

  I shrugged.

  “No children here, so it doesn’t matter as much. And we never went dry, even when the rest of Manitoba did.” This was back in 1921 when prohibition fever came up from the States and swept over the northern continent. We not only hadn’t gone dry, McIntyre’s Gulch had become a large producer of illegal spirits. We still made our own whisky.

  “No children. That would be a little strange. Sad too.”

  I shrugged.

  “People go away to have kids, but some come back later.”

  The Mountie shook his head.

  “You seem strange to me too. I think that you must be a little different from other people. To do this job.” I shook my head back at him as he glanced around the pub, thinking that of course he was different. We were all kind of weirdoes here in McIntyre’s Gulch. “I mean this nicely, but detectives must be a bit like gossip columnists or the paparazzi.”

  “I beg your pardon.” Now he looked startled.

  “I mean, to have the deep urge to know things about other people who are strangers and to pursue it doggedly, that’s not normal. And then to maybe go ahead and use the knowledge you dig up, even when it would be better to let sleeping dogs lie. It takes a certain kind of person to do that.” I tried to explain what I was feeling in terms less insulting. “I know that the truth is supposed to be some kind of higher god that sets us free, but what is truth? Unless we’re talking Divine truth, it’s just statistics and opinion and personal bias. And in your line, no one gets set free. People must be very uncomfortable around you. Why would anyone do what you do?”

  It was his turn to shrug. The question was easy to phrase, but the answer had to be complicated.

  “So, you think truth doesn’t matter?” he asked at last.

  The Mountie was bound by occupation to lobby for truth in the name of justice but was smart enough to realize that I probably was not his target demographic.

  “Not if the truth hurts innocent people. It would be different if you could stop a bad thing from happening, but what is the point of knowing stuff when it’s all over and done with and the truth will just do harm to those who are left in the ruins?”

  “Give me an example.”

  “Well, a rape victim that didn’t want what happened to be known. Didn’t want her face in the papers.”

  I got a long look and hoped I hadn’t started him thinking about my past.

  “So, you would want me to pretend that I didn’t notice that something had been dragged away from the crash site?” He sounded so reasonable.

  “I’m not saying anything was dragged from the crash site—”

  “I am.”

  “But if there was, maybe there was a reason for it. Maybe there’s a higher purpose than truth at work sometimes.” There probably wasn’t in most cases, and certainly not in this one. Except that we were possibly cosmically entitled to some remuneration for the minimal taxes we paid the government every year, since we got no services from the state.

  “There’s always a reason for people to do things, Butterscotch. Even horrible things,” he said kindly. “Drug addicts steal because they hurt and need drugs. That doesn’t make it right. And catching them before they steal again keeps them from harming more people.”

  “Drugs? You think there were drugs?” I demanded, diverted. I hoped my mouth wasn’t hanging open.

  “No drugs?”

  “No—” I stopped myself. “Not that I saw.”

  “Probably no underage prostitutes headed for the brothel?”

  “Good God, no!” I made myself lower my voice when the other guests’ eyes turned my way. I waved a hand at Fiddling Thomas who looked ready to come over to the table. Thomas is lovely, but hot-tempered. “Though if we had found one—even if she was an illegal—I probably would hide her. Or him. If they asked.” I took a swallow of my ginger ale. “So, you think the pilot was a really bad person? Someone up to no good?”

  “I know he consorted with really bad people and got himself stabbed.”

  “Did you get an ID on him?”

  “Yep. Records are sketchy, but he’s Russian mafia down in the States and has a long rap sheet. The FBI has been looking for him.”

  Oh damn. That’s all we needed. I drank more ginger ale and hoped that the Flowers would bring us our burgers soon. You can’t talk when your mouth is full.

  “That fact is almost as interesting as what I didn’t find.”

  “What’s that?” I asked, but I had a bad feeling. The shelf life on suspicion and paranoia in McIntyre’s Gulch is a lot longer than for canned goods. A curious Mountie and a fax machine. Anything could happen. I braced myself.

  “There is no record of birth for a Butterscotch Jones.”

  “Of course not,” I said with an ease I was definitely not feeling. “I doubt any births were recorded in town before the Bones got here. People here have always used a midwife or medicine woman and they aren’t big on paperwork. And I changed my name years ago.”

  The Mountie blinked.

  “Look. It isn’t that big a mystery. My father gambles—or gambled. He may be dead now. As you can tell, there isn’t much scope for a gambler in McIntyre’s Gulch or even Manitoba, so my mother foolishly eloped with him and went off to live his dream. When she died, Dad discovered what a burden a kid is and dumped me on my grandparents before taking off to find brighter lights and bigger cities in the United States. Years passed between visits. We weren’t close.” I was condensing history for convenience and not mentioning how my dad would drop around periodically and threaten to take me away if my grandparents didn’t pay him off. Not that he had actually taken me in when they died. I would have ended up on the streets if not for my various grants and the housing arrangement with Tom, Dick, and Harry. “Last I heard, he was in Nevada and in debt to the kind of people you don’t want to be indebted to. That was right after he stole my college money—though I guess it isn’t stealing since I was a minor and the law would say he was entitled to anything I earned.” This came out rather bitterly.

  “So, you haven’t seen him recently?” I am almost sure that there was sympathy there, but I can do math—dead pilot, mob tattoos, gambling father. It was a tenuous connection, but a connection nonetheless. And he’d give birth to kittens if he found out that my father had been of Russian extraction.

  “Not in a decade. And, as I said, he may be dead. And, in case you have suffered a sudden drop in IQ and intuition, yes, I like my neighbors more than I liked him. For that reason I let the past stay in the past—and that includes a name that meant nothing to me even when I bore it. I like my present, no matter how humble it may seem to you, and I don’t want to ruin it with bad memories. I am Butterscotch Jones of McIntyre’s Gulch.”

  “I don’t suppose
you would care to share your old name anyway?”

  “I would not. It isn’t relevant. It has nothing to do with crashed planes and I’m not that person anymore. And—” I smiled maliciously, “—no one here knows my dad’s name either since I changed it before I came to—back—so there is no point in asking.”

  “Is that meant to challenge me?”

  “It’s meant to keep you out of my business.” I didn’t hide my exasperation.

  “Do you think it will work?” he asked curiously.

  “I sincerely hope so. Or this will be the shortest friendship in history.”

  He looked thoughtful but made no promises.

  I gulped more ginger ale and then crunched some ice when the liquid was gone. The tentacles of my past were still with me, weakened maybe, but not gone. And it was the same for many Joneses in town. This man was—though smart and likable—our enemy.

  And all he had to do to catch us was to wait and watch for someone to put a foot wrong. One misstep by me, or anyone, and we might all be betrayed, our sanctuary exposed. The betrayal would be accidental, I was sure. Pretty sure. But that wouldn’t be much consolation for those of us who had run to the ends of the earth and had nowhere else left to go.

  Though I rarely think about it, and therefore don’t go looking for it in others, I wondered how many of my neighbors resented being driven to their last stand. Did they harbor resentment for those who put them here and long to escape back into their old lives? I had chosen this life, but what of those born to it? Did they wish that they could move on to bigger and better things? I was so grateful to have escaped jail that I felt little envy for anyone on the outside, but did others in McIntyre’s Gulch count their blessings and come up short?

  As a for instance, I was pretty sure that Whisky Jack was over at the bar demanding money from Big John. His addled brain probably believed that the money actually was his and he was never satisfied.

  “Don’t frown. Your neighbors respect and like you too. They speak highly of your intelligence. I asked about you by way of breaking the ice and they were all complimentary. Especially Madge Brightwater.”