Due North

by Jackson, Melanie

  “Aye, I thought this myself. Who can we trust, eh?” John asked without a blush. “But as to what to do—the phone is down and so is the radio. I fear we’re on our own until the storm passes.”

  “We can’t call out?” Chuck asked, reaching for the telephone to try the line himself.

  I saw Big John do some calculating. Was it better to get official help in driving off the Russians, losing part of the treasure but keeping the cash and perhaps receiving a reward as well as a medal or honorable mention for thwarting dangerous criminals? Or should he stall the Mountie and hope for a sudden case of RMCP amnesia and that the Russians were really in town looking for the Sasquatch and not an airplane full of loot?

  Big John isn’t stupid, but I knew he was reluctant to let go of the money that he considered to belong to the town.

  “What about the radio at the Braids’ store?” I asked. “It might be working. We could at least reach Little Fork and they could pass a message on. Maybe.”

  “Aye, it might do. But that’s one hell of a gale blowing out there, eh? It’s picked up these last few minutes. I’d send no one out into it, even your damned Russians—though it galls me to have them in my house.”

  I thought of the scary one with the scars and decided that “gall” didn’t half cover it.

  “I’ll have to chance it,” Chuck said. “The grocer isn’t that far away.”

  “Are you having the way with an old-style radio? For it’s sixty years old at least and ornery to boot, and the Braids won’t be at the store to show you. Be sensible. We can handle these two men for the length of the storm,” John insisted.

  “And if there are more? A lot more?” Chuck asked.

  Big John and I were both uneasy with this suggestion. We hadn’t seen or heard any planes landing on the lake, but that didn’t mean a thing. After all, the last one had crashed and we didn’t hear it either.

  Wind slammed at the shutters, a buffet so loud that it sounded like a body banging on the wall.

  “It’s too dangerous to go out now,” I argued. “Big John or I could maybe try when the wind dies down a bit, but it would be suicide for you to attempt it. And I doubt the Russians would try moving around in this storm anyway. It would be stupid. If there are more of them, they will wait it out somewhere.”

  “Stupid like their pilot was?” Chuck asked, making a good point. “I can’t allow a civilian to go in my place anyway,” Chuck objected. “You wouldn’t know what to say.”

  “Do you mean civilian—or do you mean woman?” I demanded. “Because I think I might be insulted by that suggestion. The whiteout doesn’t respect gender any more than it does nationality. Believe me, it would kill you just as happily as someone with breasts or a Russian accent.”

  “Butterscotch, I am not trying to—” He was interrupted by a knock on the door.

  “Dad, you’d best come out here,” Judy said, opening the door a crack. “I think Fiddling Thomas is about to shoot one of the strangers.”

  “Alright,” Big John answered, opening his desk drawer and pulling out a pistol. It was one he had brought back from Vietnam.

  “Mr. McIntyre,” Chuck began warningly. “It would be best if—”

  “Wait,” Judy said. “They’re leaving. I guess the loud one isn’t as dumb as he acts. The big one is leaving too. A shame. He seemed rather nice.”

  “Did they hurt anyone? Threaten anyone?” Big John asked, returning his pistol to the drawer. “If they did then by God they’ll have no shelter here!”

  “Just themselves,” Judy answered. “If they don’t find shelter, the storm will kill them.”

  “I’d best go out and see to things myself. We can talk more later,” Big John said, and I followed him. Part of me wanted to lock the pub door and start inventorying weapons, but that was wrong. You never barred the door during a storm, just in case a neighbor was caught outside and needed shelter. As much as I feared the Russians, the scarred one especially, I wasn’t ready to murder them.

  I also wondered what Chuck was going to say in his report when the storm finally cleared and he could make it to a radio. A large part of me believed, or at least hoped, that he would do everything he could to make things easy for us. Maybe he would even say that he had found the money on the plane. But if he didn’t lie, there was no guarantee that his boss, already angry from the last case, would follow any recommendations his subordinate made.

  Really, it might be best if the loot disappeared with the Russians. No one would ever be caught spending stolen money or fencing jewelry, and there would be no way to prove that it was ever here. But how could I arrange this? Especially with the truth’s disciple there beside me, watching my every move.

  * * *

  Sasha was not happy to be back out in the storm. He was cold and hungry and regretting ever agreeing to go to work for Grigori Smirnoff.

  His hopes of a reprieve rose momentarily when a figure lurched at them out of the snow. He thought that maybe someone from the saloon had come to urge them back inside, but the figure turned out to be a raggedy man who reeked of distilled spirits.

  “Did they take your money too?” the man asked in a voice raised enough to be heard over the wind. There was some shelter from the building, but the wind’s angry cries were rising ever louder. “Are they hiding it from you? They hide my money from me.”

  “Money?” Grigori asked.

  “Aye. The money in the train crash.”

  “The plane crash?” Grigori asked.

  “What? Oh, aye. They said it was a plane. The money is safe though. It’s safe in a safe. In Big John’s office. I wish they would give it back to me. It’s a cold night. A man needs a drink to keep warm.”

  Grigori looked back at the pub’s door, calculating the odds of forcing his way back in. They were not great, but that would change when the others arrived.

  Sasha just hoped that everyone would be sensible and not provoke the colonel. Especially he hoped that nothing happened to the pretty woman behind the bar.

  Chapter 12: The Russians Return

  The second time Grigori entered the saloon he was leading five other ex-Russian Special Forces members carrying M4 assault carbines in their arms and shouting orders that seemed to confuse rather than cow the locals. Feeling frustrated, Grigori fired his machine pistol into the ceiling to ensure the room’s attention. This action produced several more holes for Big John to have to patch. The others in Grigori’s squad only pointed their weapons but did yell for those in the bar to “Stay still!”

  The room stayed still, with the exception of the Russians who were moving fast to take up assigned positions.

  “I’m back,” Grigori announced in singsong English, standing by the doors to the saloon. He chuckled as he swiveled the barrel of his machine pistol back and forth and considered spraying everyone in the bar with bullets.

  It hadn’t taken long for the team to assemble after he’d radioed for assistance from the base of the stairs leading down from the saloon. Everyone was wearing snowshoes when they arrived, which was a sound decision. Even if not needed now, the snow was growing thicker and beginning to pile higher. As soon as the brothers ran up dragging the snow sledge behind them, the party began shucking their winter gear and distributing weapons.

  It took even less time for the Russians to subdue everyone in the bar, all seven of them. A quick weapons search produced four pistols, a shotgun, and five hunting knives that were stacked at the end of the bar. The woman who appeared to be having dinner alone was the sole individual in the saloon not bearing arms. Her lack of weaponry did not lead Grigori or the other men to overlook her.

  Sasha was quaking in his snow boots as he moved to the center of the room to do what he did best; namely, occupy space. He didn’t like guns. He preferred to do his dirty work up close and personal, using any one of whatever assortment of knives that might be at hand. As usual when close to his comrades, his digestive system was giving him fits, and now he had to deal with an out-of-contro
l Grigori as well. And he just knew Gregori would be shooting up the place before the evening was through. It was a shame that the God of his mother did not strike him down.

  As for Alexei and Ivan, it was a dead heat as to which one of them noticed the two beautiful women in the room first. The brothers exchanged hopeful smiles when they realized what had also been snagged along with the catch. When the time came, Alexei was too shy and refused to pat down the Flowers, accepting that the pistol and knife she handed him were her only hidden weapons. Ivan sorely wanted to pat down the other woman, but the look in her eye told him that if he touched her he would die shortly thereafter. He looked her over real close though, getting close enough to become intoxicated by her scent.

  Meanwhile, Grigori strutted across the room up to the bar ignoring everything, even the muttering going on around him. Big John stood behind the counter, waiting, arms folded across his expansive chest, mouth hidden behind a face full of fur, but clearly frowning all the same.

  “So, you are Big John, the thief. And you capitalists, we continue conversation, no?”

  Big John didn’t respond, but it was clear he had no choice but to be a good boy and obey. It was also clear from his growl that he was in no mood to be messed with, and that he might just bite if pushed too far. But then the Russian had the gun, and looked fully prepared to use it. The two men sized each other up quickly. All it took was a glance from Grigori to Big John’s daughter to galvanize in steel the fact that Big John would be doing anything Grigori wanted, albeit grudgingly.

  “I’ve been told things,” Grigori began. “By a drunk,” he concluded. “But one whom I believe.”

  “What’s that to do with me?” Big John took a chance in laying down the challenge straight off.

  “As it turns out, a great deal, Big John,” Gregori hinted. “We’re here for the treasure.”

  “What treasure?”

  Gregori was already growing impatient. He wanted dearly to use his gun to resolve this dispute, but knew through experience, most of it bad, that now was not the time for gunplay. He counted to ten in his mind before speaking again.

  “Come, Big John. Don’t make a mess of me,” Grigori suggested.

  “I think you mean: Don’t mess with me,” Big John corrected.

  “As you say. But you get my meaning,” Grigori added, wiggling the tip of his machine pistol back and forth.

  “I understand.”

  “Good. Take me to safe.”

  “I have no safe. Who told you this lie?”

  Both men knew that Big John was stalling and that Grigori would eventually get everything he wanted. Regardless, they continued to play their game to its inevitable conclusion.

  Meanwhile, Alexei couldn’t keep his eyes off the Flowers. Rather than paying attention to the discussion going on at the bar, Alexei directed short peeks at the Flowers and tried not to sweat too hard. The Flowers eventually caught sight of one of his furtive looks and smiled. Alexei smiled back, a crooked grin that showed his surprise at not being shunned. Eventually, the Flowers inched over to take a seat at a table in the corner. Alexei walked with her, to keep watch over her.

  “Why don’t you have a seat,” the Flowers suggested. “It looks like we’re going to be here a long time.”

  “Nyet!” Alexei insisted. “I mean, no!” he translated. “I mean, no, thank you,” he concluded. “It is more conventional that I remain standing.”

  The Flowers laughed softly, and then so did he.

  Ivan fared much worse in his initial contact with the other woman. The woman remained seated and unsmiling during their encounter. Ivan tried to make small talk but ended up tongue tied instead.

  “You are beautiful woman,” Ivan commented with a smile.

  “Where the hell did you guys come from?” the woman returned, clearly not charmed with the compliment.

  “New Jersey,” Ivan replied, the smile wilting off his face. “Is good place.”

  The woman shook her head in astonishment.

  “And who are you?” she continued.

  “Russian,” Ivan replied. Then he made a gun with his hand and held it up in front of his face.

  “Good Lord, you’re really the Russian mafia? Him,” she jerked her head in Grigori’s direction, “I can see him as mafia. The rest of you….”

  “Da. That is because I am become mostly American and very fashionable,” Ivan replied, touching the tip of his nose in the universal sign for: you’ve got that right. “And you are still beautiful woman.”

  Ivan expected to be slapped. Instead the woman leaned forward, put her face into her hands, and shook her head. Ivan recognized this as the universal sign for: it’s been one of those days.

  “You alright? There is no need for frightenment.” Ivan assured her, concerned that he had somehow injured a prisoner in his charge.

  “I’m great,” the woman said, smoothing her hands out across her face and looking up at him. “So, what’s your name?”

  Ivan never got a chance to reply. Instead, there was a scream as Grigori grabbed the Flowers around the neck and dragged her over to the bar.

  Alexei was barely able to restrain himself from action. If he had acted, he wouldn’t have been alone. Everyone in the bar was now standing. Things had suddenly grown tense. Ivan looked fearfully at his brother, unsure where the greatest danger would come from.

  “Take me to the safe!” Grigori insisted, placing the barrel of his machine pistol against the Flowers’ temple.

  “Okay, okay,” Big John responded as he stepped out from behind the bar.

  Big John led what was now a substantial crowd into the hall leading to the back office. Grigori and the Flowers followed right behind. Alexei pushed to be the first into the office after Grigori. Ivan and the woman lagged well behind.

  Perhaps the brothers were not indistinguishable after all, Grigori thought. Maybe one was smarter.

  * * *

  As if my day hadn’t held sufficient evil, the nasty Russian was back. And with numerous, unpleasant comrades, just as Chuck had predicted.

  And speaking of Chuck, when he didn’t reappear from Big John’s office, demanding that everyone stop shooting guns and tell him the truth, I began to suspect that the gallant but clearly delusional Mountie had actually slipped out of the back door before the villains’ arrival and was trying to reach the grocery store and its radio.

  Someone would have to go after him. That is if the whack-job with the itchy trigger finger would let me.

  Big John and the Russian were bartering, Big John clearly not understanding how unstable the scary Russian was. He had also not seen Whisky Jack slipping back inside and therefore wasn’t certain that their secret had actually been revealed. Had the Russian again demanded a guide to the plane, we could have easily lost them in the storm, but that wasn’t where this was headed.

  As I tried desperately to think what to do, one of the young—and, I must admit, handsome—soldiers came to sit at my table. The Flowers was already distracting another soldier, flirting with all her might. I knew what I should do but found myself without any flirtatious small talk. What little I had had been used on Chuck.

  As I feared, the crazy Russian ran out of patience with arguing and turned his gun on the Flowers. If looks could kill, the Russian would have been a grease spot on the floor. As it was, Big John finally understood how really crazy and dangerous this man leading the raid was. Big John liked money, but his priorities were straight and he wouldn’t endanger his daughter anymore now that he understood how dire the situation was.

  We crowded into the office while the safe was opened. Everyone except me was stunned to find the safe empty. Big John’s gasp was genuine, so I knew that he hadn’t moved the treasure.

  That narrowed the field of suspects. Fiddling Thomas with his nimble fingers could probably open the safe, but there was a more likely candidate.

  I looked into the Flowers’ eyes and saw that she was the one who had moved the money, probably right after
the Mountie and I confronted her dad. It was why she hadn’t wanted the Mountie at the pub. But if she knew where the money was, she was keeping very quiet. Feeling sick, I understood what she was thinking and couldn’t betray her. If it had been someone else in charge of the raid, I would have urged her to tell them where the money was and let them go on their way. But the crazy man who was leading this party was just as likely to kill everyone when he got what he wanted. After all, why leave witnesses?

  His type is rare; demons I call them. Most people wouldn’t know anything about individuals like this, people without conscience or compassion or soul. I wouldn’t have known about them if I hadn’t been around one night when a leg-breaker hired by one of Dad’s creditors stopped in for a down payment on the overdue loan. I had hidden behind the sofa while the man slammed my father’s hand in the door. I was only seven, but I had understood clearly that he was enjoying causing pain and if he found me, he would hurt me too.

  No, the Flowers had good reason for keeping quiet around this monster. We had reached a temporary standoff.

  But I had to do something. Chuck had to do something, if he could. I needed the Mountie, I needed Max, I needed weapons—but above all I needed a working radio. It was a bad night for anyone to be outside, but I knew the rest of McIntyre’s Gulch would come to our aid if we could let them know what had happened.

  I began inching toward the back door. I felt bad leaving everyone behind, but it was the best thing I could think to do since we didn’t have time or opportunity for a town meeting on this one.

  Chapter 13: Men in Suits