Demon Accords 10: Rogues

by John Conroe

  “And he likes you,” Buck said.

  “Why would you say that?” she asked.

  “Because he’s male. And because I heard enough of your conversation with Chris Gordon to understand you were talking about the kid coming up here to back you up whether anyone told him to or not,” Buck said. “But the real question is… how do you feel about him?”

  She whipped around to look at him as he drove. “It’s complicated,” she finally said.

  “Is it?” he asked doubtfully.

  “Yeah, it is,” she said, starting to get mad. “You don’t know me. You don’t know any of us.”

  “Sorry. You’re right,” he said quickly. “Not meaning to piss you off. Really, really don’t want to piss you off,” he assured her. “It just that you’ll get a text and I’ll see a secret smile. I’m not sure because I don’t know exactly who is texting you, but I suspect those smiles come when your young friend is the sender. That makes it seem like you like him.”

  She stared at him, her angry expression turning to something more like mild horror. He glanced at her and grew alarmed. “What?”

  “It’s just that we’ve just met. You don’t know me. But you think the same thing that a lot of my friends do as well,” she said.

  “So just what would be so wrong about liking this kid? Is he evil? Would he hurt you?” Buck asked.

  “Hurt me? No, of course not. He doesn’t even get road rage when someone cuts him off, which is a really good thing, by the way. It’s just… I don’t know… not what I imagined… not who I imagined,” she said.

  “Well, that’s reassuring,” he said with a laugh.

  She frowned at him until he explained. “That werewolves and witches get blindsided by life, too. But, we’re here. Time to focus and check out the military werewolf,” he said, putting the truck in Park and opening his door. “Alleged werewolf,” he amended.

  “Nope, he’s a wolf alright,” she said, sniffing the air as she got out. “And he’s done a thorough job of marking his territory,” she added, her nose wrinkling.

  The cabin was constructed of logs—not a kit but actual logs, cut and hand-fit to each other. It was small, probably no more then three or four rooms, with a large roofed porch, half of which had been screened against mosquitoes and blackflies.

  The front door was a heavy-duty affair made from rough-sawn planks, and the cylinder lock on the door was first rate.

  They knocked on the door, Stacia tilting her head to listen with more than human ears as they waited.

  “I don’t think he’s here,” she said. “I’ll go around back and sniff around,” she said, heading for the open end of the porch.

  “Stop!” Buck said, the note of urgency in his voice freezing her in mid-step.

  He walked past her and bent over to point out a single strand of taut fishing line that stretched from the corner porch post to the wall of the cabin, stapled in a trail around the log corner. Buck studied it carefully before leaning on the cabin wall high up and peeking around the corner.

  “I think that’s a CS grenade… pepper spray, basically,” he said. “We need to proceed carefully.”

  “Well he’s got my attention,” she said, following the sergeant as he cautiously stepped over the nearly invisible line. “You’ve done this before,” she noted.

  “Iraq. Bellini and me were squadmates. You always had to watch for traps,” he said.

  “Were you kidding before? About Hell?”

  She was silent long enough for him to stop moving and glance back at her. Silently, she shook her head. When she still didn’t speak, he decided the look in her eyes was answer enough. Suddenly, she put a hand on his arm, her head tilted. “I hear a really, really quiet electrical hum. Like a battery-powered something,” she said.

  He stopped and looked around them, finally spotting something.

  “Circle around that way. He’s got a battery-powered motion detector on a tree,” Buck said.

  They skirted the obvious clearing, instead moving along the edge of the tree line. Buck pointed to the brown-painted plastic motion sensor fastened to a small oak tree, its sensor lens pointed at the cabin.

  Following the wires from the back of it, he traced them upward into the branches of the tree.

  “Shit, look at that.” He pointed upward.

  An old single shot shotgun was lashed to a branch, some kind of homemade servo device installed over the trigger guard, the barrel pointing the same direction as the motion detector. The gun was about ten or eleven feet off the ground. Buck studied the tree, looking for a way up, but Stacia just bent her legs a bit and jumped eight feet straight up. Adroitly catching a handy limb, she flipped up and slipped her legs over the same branch as the shotgun then, with a quick hand, unlatched the action and removed the single round from the chamber. Tossing it down to the openmouthed deputy sergeant, she slid off the branch and dropped lightly to the ground.

  “Damn, that’s handy,” he said.

  “A girl’s gotta have skills,” she said, only slightly smug.

  They carefully cleared the rest of the home site, finding four more booby traps of varying lethality, but no Michael Tacchino.

  Back at the truck, they radioed Devany and Hampton, who had also struck out with finding Karen Lyons.

  “Now what?” Stacia asked.

  “Let’s check in at the Bitter Bear. Tacchino hangs out there, or used to. See if anyone has seen him.”

  Chapter 14

  The Bitter Bear had lots to be angry with, Stacia decided almost as soon as they stepped inside.

  It must have been charming once, the stereotypical woodsy tavern with log everything, wood everywhere, and rustic out the ass. A big chainsaw-carved bear greeted them by the door, one paw outstretched palm up, the other up in a wave. Someone had broken off all the claws on the waving paw but the middle one, which made a big difference in the bear’s intended greeting.

  The place was dirty, rundown, and smelled of old spilled beer, cheap spilled whiskey, a bit of spilled blood here and there, and deliberately spilled urine in at least one corner.

  A log bar ran on one wall, across from a row of faded booths, with a few tables in between. The back of the room held a pool table and some kind of long shuffleboard game that took up the whole back wall.

  Three men looked up at the newcomers from their pool game, two women who had been watching them also glancing to the front. One old-timer sat at the bar, and the overweight, bearded bartender’s face went from disinterested to outright surly at the sight of Buck’s uniform.

  Ignoring the stares from the pool table, Stacia followed Buck over to the bar.

  “Hey Curly, how’s it going?” Buck asked the bartender whose thinning scalp held not one single curl.

  “If it isn’t Johnny Law,” Curly said, taking his eyes off Buck to give Stacia a top-to-bottom appraisal followed by a leer.

  “Seen Tacchino lately?” Buck asked.

  Curly’s head started to shake no before Buck even got the words out.

  The three guys behind them were commenting on Stacia, and she was pretty sure she would have heard them even without wolf ears. None of it was charming and she’d heard all of it many times before.

  Buck’s face flushed red, either anger at Curly’s attitude or anger at the crude comments from behind them, or both. Before he could blow his top, the old guy to his left swore. “Shit on a stick, Curly. You and every damned person who sucks suds in this hole have been doing nothing but complain about the law not catching the killer. People dying, monster at large, and here comes Buck, doing his job, and you go dumb. Dumber.”

  “Maybe you about had enough then, Darrell? Perhaps it’s time for you to pack it in,” Curly said, fixing his eyes on the oldster.

  “Sure. Maybe I have. Maybe I’ll take my pension and spend it at the Dew Drop Inn. Morgan would be glad to have a steady customer,” Darrell said. He turned to Buck, nodding at Stacia. “Tacchino hasn’t been around a lot lately. At least a couple of
months. But last time I saw him, he looked good, like treatments were working.”

  “Tacchino’s a fucking ass,” Curly said, snagging Darrell’s draft glass and refilling it at the tap, looking annoyed with himself for doing it. “Got into it with Bob and Bob in September. Beat hell out of both of them. Broke a table. I told him to stay away till he bought me a new one. Fucking guy snarled at me and I ain’t seen him since.”

  “Big Bob and Bigger Bob?” Buck asked, eyebrows raised. Curly nodded, looking uncomfortable.

  “Lumbermen, the both,” Darrell explained to Stacia. “Big Bob is about six-five, two-seventy. Bigger Bob is, as the name says, bigger. Couple of hard cases that wrestle trees to the ground for a living. Tacchino’s always been a tough son of a bitch, but never got anywhere with either Bob. Beat the bejesus outta both of them that night, though. And did it fast. Coldcocked Bigger. Two fast punches. Put him right out. Big grabbed him and Tachinno threw him across the bar into that crap table that Curly’s all worked up about. Was on him when he landed and broke his nose. Fucking growled, he did.”

  Buck and Stacia exchanged a look, silently agreeing that this was confirmation. A shadow at the side of her vision caught Stacia’s attention and she turned to find one of the pool players standing there, grinning like an idiot.

  About six feet tall, he had a mustache but no beard, brown hair and brown eyes, and an obvious buzz. “Hey, why don’t you buy me a beer and I’ll teach you to play pool?” he asked as soon as he had her attention.

  One of the other two guffawed while the younger of the two women, a blonde, stood with crossed arms and a pissed-off expression.

  “Give it a rest, Kyle,” Buck said, annoyed.

  “Free country, Buck. Lady can buy my love if she wants, right babe?” the back bar player asked.

  Stacia gave Buck an apologetic smile, then turned to Kyle. “Listen, I’ve already got one asshole in these pants. I don’t need two,” she said.

  There was a moment of silence as her words were processed by everyone in the bar. Then both Darrell and Curly burst out laughing and Buck coughed hard. Kyle the ladykiller hadn’t heard that one before and his beer-bleary eyes went wide then turned angry.

  He leaned forward and poked a finger at her chest. “Listen, bit…” was as far as he got before his finger was grabbed in a small steel fist and he dropped to his knees in pain as she flexed it. Point made, she let go, watching as he stood unsteadily up.

  “Move on, Kyle,” Buck warned, but a bleached-blonde blur came between both him and Kyle as the crossed-arm girl came at Stacia. Her left arm flashed out in a slapping arc, but to Stacia, it looked like slow motion. She leaned back and the girl’s hand slipped past her, the follow-through bringing it palm first right into the end of Kyle’s nose.

  “Wha’ da ‘uck ‘elly!” he demanded, holding his nose, which was already swelling.

  “Enough!” Buck said commanded.

  Swearing and holding his face, Kyle turned and stormed back to the pool table where his grinning buddies were unlikely to offer much solace. Kelly went after him, pausing only to flash Stacia a glare before chasing after her wounded man.

  “Listen, Buck. I’ll call you if I see Tacchino. Now could you maybe leave us alone before all my customers leave me?” Curly asked.

  “Naw, that was the most fun I’ve had in here in years. You, ma’am, can come here anytime you want,” Darrell said to Stacia.

  “Thanks, but I’m not much of a drinker,” she said. Buck coughed again at that and then led the way out of the Bitter Bear.

  “You’re pretty much a menace wherever you go, aren’t you?” he asked as they climbed back into the truck.

  “I don’t ever start trouble, but it finds me,” she said. “So I tend to finish it.”

  “Cause a lot of trouble in the Big Apple, do you?” he asked.

  “Well, there’s always some guy that thinks he’s God’s gift to the females of the world. Other than that, I’m pretty well-known in the places I hang out. They don’t tolerate a lot of nonsense from guys like that,” she said.

  “Your buddy the witch… what would he have done back there?” Buck asked.

  “Declan? Probably would have pulled up a stool next to Darrell and watched the fun. He knows I can handle my own problems just fine,” she said.

  “Hmm. I think I’d like to meet this kid,” Buck said.

  “He’d probably talk shop with you. His step-aunt is a Vermont deputy near Burlington.”

  “He doesn’t get jealous when men hit on you?” Buck asked.

  “I don’t think he likes it, but he keeps calm about it,” she said.

  “How do you feel about that? Should he get jealous?” Buck asked.

  “If you’re asking if I like drama and stirring up trouble around me, the answer is a loud hell no. And I want him to stay calm. I’ve only seen him angry a couple of times and it wasn’t anything I want to see again.”

  “Hmm. Like I said, I think I’d like to meet this kid. But let’s go find Shorty and see if he’ll take us to Maurice Bowwan. Maybe the whole balance of the earth business will give us a clue,” Buck said.

  “That’s very open-minded of you Sergeant,” she said, surprised.

  “I’m learning quick, Stacia. I’m learning quick.”

  Chapter 15

  Maurice Bowwan lived in a yurt out another six miles past Shorty Kane’s hunting lodge. The road to get to it pretty much demanded a four-wheel drive vehicle.

  “A yurt?” Stacia asked for the third time.

  “They’re simple and efficient. He can easily heat it with wood all winter, and it costs little in upkeep,” Shorty said as he navigated the pitted, muddy road.

  “How does he earn a living out here?” she asked.

  “He’s a writer, poetry mostly, but articles and stories too. A few books. He drives out every few days and uses Wi-fi in town to send his stuff out and correspond with his editor and publisher,” Buck said.

  “What about the middle of winter?” she asked.

  “He’ll snowmobile over to my place and use my Internet, sometimes spend the night so we can play cards. It all works,” Shorty said.

  They bumped and bounced another three tenths of mile till they came to a large clearing. A very old Dodge pickup was parked under a pole barn made from spruce logs that still had the bark on them. A massive garden space, currently covered with decaying compost, lay between the pole barn and the plywood-sided and canvas-topped yurt that occupied the pride of place in the center of the clearing. Out beyond the yurt, an open expanse of water stretched over an area equal to several football fields. Looking oddly similar to the yurt, a beaver hut poked up in the swampy section of the small pond.

  A tall, fit-looking man watched them from a firewood pile, a splitting ax casually hung over one shoulder.

  Shorty parked near the pole barn and led the way around the garden to the splitting grounds where the man was still working.

  “Hey Maurice,” Shorty said, his tone casual but respectful.

  “John. You’ve brought me visitors?” Maurice asked in a deep stately voice, reminding Stacia of James Earl Jones.

  “You know Buck of course,” Shorty said. “And this is Stacia Reynolds.”

  “How do you do sir?” she asked.

  “The Wolf of Washington? Brought to my door?” Maurice asked, turning to Shorty. Somehow, it didn’t sound like he was delighted.

  “That makes her sound like a politician or stock trader,” Shorty said. “She’s here to help with the killings.”

  “To help make the killings? Or find the killers?” Maurice asked. Stacia couldn’t tell if he was joking.

  Well over six feet tall, he was lean and weathered, wearing jeans, hiking boots, and a sleeveless shirt that should have looked ridiculous but didn’t. He was very obviously fit, in that ropey, sinewy way active older men sometimes are. His hair was thinning but still mostly dark, which matched his dark eyes. His high cheekbones were likely a gift from his Native Americ
an ancestors. He was studying her intensely and it was oddly uncomfortable.

  She was used to people reacting to her physical attractiveness, but this wasn’t that. It was almost as if he were looking under her skin.

  “Well, come out to the porch. I’ve got a pot of tea steeping,” he said, sinking the ax into his splitting log with an authoritative whack and leading the way around front.

  A flat, railing-less deck was attached to the front of the yurt. The deck was only a foot off the ground but wide and spacious, providing plenty of room for a wooden slat futon and a rough set of split log benches.