Bear Fursuits Books 1-4: Bear Fursuits

by Montrose, Isadora

  "It's a design feature. The idea is that your kitchen looks like a sitting room and not a place you cook," Maddie told him.

  Len kept shaking his head. "Sure enough looked like a library, time we were done. All them granite counters and not a sign of pots and pans. But a stove as big as she could find. Eight burners. Wanted us to hide it too. But Joe and I told her it was against code."

  "And Joe is your brother? And when the boss asked you to help Doug out you just left home?"

  "Well sure," Len said. "Dougie's family. Plus we're not much for going into the city, but a bunch of us bachelors figured that maybe we could get lucky too."

  Len looked worriedly at his hostess's wrathful face. What had he said? Doug was gonna kill him if he upset his mate.

  "Lucky?" said Maddie coldly.

  Len rushed to explain. "See it's pretty hard for us guys to find us a mate in Kittitas County. Just about every female is spoken for, or a cousin. And bears aren't much for moving around. We tried us that internet mating service. But them girls was too frisky for life in Kittitas County. If you know what I mean.

  "Why some of them was pretty well bare nekked in the photos they sent. And what they was wearing was too risky for French Town."

  "Risqué?"

  Len blushed a beet red from the collar of his tee-shirt to his hairline. "You wouldn't believe. Nuh huh. And some of them sent a photo to more than one of us." He sounded profoundly shocked.

  "So you gave up on the internet dating sites?"

  "Yes, ma'am, but when Jack and Will brought their ma-uh-fiancées home, Joe and me we figured maybe we should go ahunting in the south too. Trouble is, we was only talking about it, push come to shove, we're stay-at-homes."

  "So you're looking for a wife in Portland?"

  "Yeah. But first we gotta take care of this SOB—pardon my French—who is trying to kill you."

  * * *

  "They say that when Jacques Benoit brought the Salish woman into the Kittitas to look for gold she had already given him three children. They say her name in her own language was Bear Woman, or maybe Strong-as-a-bear. But he called her Sarah and maybe that was the name the priests gave her.

  "Some say that Sarah was a woman of great power and that's where the bear comes from. But others say that it was Jacques was the one. But there sure is a whole lot of bear in Kittitas County.

  "They say Jacques found gold and he hid most of it. Some say he hit a vein of ore. Some say he panned for it. My grandmother says that no Benoit ever saved nothing, and that if Jacques found gold he spent it. But for a fact, Great-great-granddaddy Benoit was a rich man.

  "He and Sarah had seventeen children. Their names is all writ down in the Bible. Five of them took sick and died, but they raised up twelve, which was pretty good for them days. The girls all married up and left. They say that Jacques sent his oldest daughter to the nuns down south someplace. Don't know how that would be.

  "The boys they found brides where they could. They say the women what only have one name writ down in the Bible, were Yakima or Hoh. No reason for it not to be true."

  Len paused to take a sallow of beer. Madeline smiled at him and took a harder look at his pleasant face. She supposed he could be partly Native American. She passed him the potatoes and urged him to continue his family history. Len loaded his plate a second time and Doug forked him another steak. Len took a bite and chewed. He swallowed.

  "Not much more to say. Benoits have been marrying up and intermarrying on Yakima Ridge for damn near two hundred years." He shook his head sorrowfully. "Them days are done. We can't be marrying our cousins no more."

  Doug frowned at his cousin. "You make us sound like incestuous cretins. Your mother was from Oregon. Mine is Ukrainian."

  Len sighed. "Your mom was definitely no relative. And it's true her kinfolk are no relation to us Benoits. But their girls married up with our kin, and their daughters are our cousins.

  "My mom was a Bascom even if she was from Gleed. You know there are Bascoms all over Kittitas County. And I don't hardly know a girl who doesn't smell like my sister. We need us some fresh blood. It's too bad Martha and Hannah don't have more kin." Len focused on cleaning his plate.

  * * *

  "We've seen three of these devices, Enright. This is the first one that didn't detonate. Never been able to tie them to our arsonist." Alexander leaned back in his chair and regarded Doug speculatively.

  "Arsonist?" Doug was skeptical. "You got a reason an arsonist would stage an accident for St. Clair's sister?"

  "This arsonist is for hire. Specializes in extermination and clean up."

  "Huh."

  "Anyway, this time the bomb didn't detonate." Alexander's voice got deeper and more down home. "We got us some DNA."

  "Bingo."

  "Uh huh. Guy we think is good for it isn't in the system. We don't expect a match."

  "So why are you so happy, Alexander?"

  "Two reasons. First, we can indict the unknown DNA donor. Second we got a glimmer. There's a blog online. Guy who writes it goes by Flamethrower."

  "Subtle."

  Alexander snorted. "If you subscribe to this guy's blog you can get details of how fire makes little problems like an infestation of rats, or kudzu go away. Or pests of a more personal nature."

  "Tell me more."

  "You mean like how many aged non-smokers have set themselves on fire smoking?"

  "You know, that is the sort of detail I had in mind."

  Alexander concluded his discussion of Flamethrower by passing Doug a photo. "Got an informant swears this is Flamethrower. He knows him as Jansen. No first name."

  Doug looked at the picture. Jansen or Flamethrower was a nondescript guy. Light brown hair, neither long nor short. Regular features. Muddy eyes. No beard. Eyebrows just eyebrows. Little ears with scarcely any lobes. Medium height. Medium build. Nothing to stick in memory.

  "Why don't you pick him up?"

  "Because his known associates are hanging outside Newberg running a drug op. Narcotics are setting up a sting. They don't want us to interfere. They don't want to shut down the plantation or the meth lab. They want the guy in charge. And remember we're not the police. And this guy isn't a terrorist."

  "What about the police?" Doug asked through his teeth. "Or are arson and murder off the radar for them too?"

  "We got no proof Jansen is not just more day labor. Narcotics are not interested in arson. Or murder. They don't like where we got our information. A known drug addict does not seem like a credible witness.

  "We can indict the donor of the DNA at the scene. We can believe that we have a candidate, but unless we have fingerprints or DNA that we know came from our suspect, we got squat."

  "Which is where I come in?"

  Alexander nodded. "You get us fingerprints and DNA, and fix it so we can harvest Flamethrower well away from the Newberg op." He passed Doug some equipment. "This might come in handy."

  Doug bared his teeth in what might have been a grin. Nothing like going hunting.

  CHAPTER TEN

  "What do you mean you have to go away for a few days?" Maddie was fuming.

  Doug shrugged. "I have some stuff to do. I'll be back by the weekend."

  "In case it slipped your mind, someone tried to blow up my car three days ago."

  "Which is why Lenny is going to stay here while I'm gone. He'll get your roof shipshape. He's a better carpenter than me." Why was she giving him a hard time?

  Maddie narrowed her eyes. The dumb cluck had that I'm-on-a-top-secret-mission look. All thin lips and hard stares. Just like bloody Adam. She gave up. "You're coming back, right?"

  "As soon as I can. You let Lenny drive you to work and pick you up." For a moment Doug seemed to want to say something else but his cousin Len walked into the hallway and grinned at them. Doug contented himself with kissing Maddie one last time.

  "Lock up," he ordered her. He turned to Len. "Take good care of her," he growled.

  "Yeah, sure. I'm cool." Len
flapped a casual hand the size of a baseball mitt at his cousin. The two men really did look enough alike to be brothers rather than second cousins twice removed.

  Madeline found herself alone in her hallway with Doug's look-alike.

  "Do I have time to take a look at that roof before I take you to work?" he asked, smiling happily down at her. She had never seen any such lighthearted expression on her lover's face.

  * * *

  Len shot nails into the course of shingles he was replacing on Maddie's roof. The sun beat down strongly on his bare back and he was enjoying covering the old cracked shingles with the new ones. He figured he'd have it taken care of by lunchtime.

  He watched the streets but on this sleepy July morning there was scarcely a car to be seen. The kids were still in school, and the minivans had not budged since the morning run. The chocolate Cayenne drove slowly and purposefully down the street. It did not hesitate in front of Maddie's place but purred on past.

  Len pulled out his cell and sent Doug a text. He sighed. But Doug's orders were clear. If the ex showed up again he was to let the roof slide and go hang out at the gym and make sure Maddie was safe.

  * * *

  Eric was fuming. Flamethrower had taken his money and failed to deliver. The black SUV had been replaced with a rusty red pickup. But Handyman was still around. Fixing the fucking roof now. But if Handyman was here, maybe he could get Maddie alone at the gym? Or maybe he could take care of Handyman himself? Nah. Better to see if Flamethrower had an explanation.

  * * *

  Len leaned back in the leather chair he had been given. He took another sip of coffee. Now that was some nasty. What had these women done to it? He didn't mind this sitting outside Madeline's office. Except for the coffee. Because this place was crawling with the most beautiful, curvaceous women he had ever seen outside of a magazine.

  A statuesque woman in tight black pants and tighter tank top came strolling down the corridor. Her big breasts were barely flattened by the tight sports bra Len could see peeking out her hot pink and black tank. Her blonde hair had been pulled back into a ponytail, as though she planned to work out. But she was wearing lipstick and blush and eye shadow, so who knew?

  The blonde woman smiled at Len and bent over to ask him where he was from. He could pretty much see between her breasts when she did that and he just about swallowed his tongue. Not that this was what he was looking for in his bride. A nice rack was a gift that he preferred his future wife to keep well wrapped up. But no harm in looking.

  "Kittitas County, ma'am," he said standing up. He held out his big calloused hand and she put her soft pampered one in his. "Leonard Benoit." That tender palm told him all he needed to know: this one never did a lick of work. Couldn't have a work shy wife in French Town.

  "Lydia Simpson." Lydia disengaged and with one last lingering look rapped on Madeline's door. At Maddie's call she went in and Len sat back down.

  Yup. He was in hog heaven for certain sure. Each of these babes was hotter than the one before. Trouble was the only one he liked was that Gayle and anyone could see she was old enough to be his mama, and happily married too. Still there was a whole afternoon ahead and the place was full of big, bold beauties.

  * * *

  The paved road petered out just as Alexander's directions had indicated and turned to gravel. Abruptly the decrepit storage units and big box warehouses ended and unplowed fields started. Big signs announced that the owners would build to suit. Too bad the recession had ended all the good times.

  The house was a good half mile from the copse where someone had cleared space for a marijuana patch. The system of tripwires was child's play for Doug to avoid even in human form. He examined the booby traps and took photos. Looked like their suspect had signed his work. And his scent was heavy in the summer air.

  The house was down a long potholed track almost invisible from the main road. Weeds grew on either side of the deep tire ruts, but the ruts were kept bare by the traffic. Mistake one.

  Doug noted there was plenty of cover so he could reconnoiter unseen. The house sat in an overgrown windbreak of poplars and maples. Brush had crept up to the walls until bushes merged with waist-high weeds to obscure the boarded up windows.

  Like any other abandoned farm house, its peeling clapboard sagged on a crumbling fieldstone foundation. A lilac bush had almost grown across the back door until someone had ruthlessly hacked its branches so they could come and go. Mistake two.

  Doug crept into the old woodlot and settled down to watch and wait. He pulled out Alexander's satellite phone and was immediately informed that there was an internet connection available. Mistake three.

  A panel van bumped gently down the track at fourteen hundred twelve. It circled around to the decrepit shed at the back of the farmhouse. A large man with a black do-rag and a black leather jacket hopped out and unlocked the shiny brand-new padlock that fastened the warped and peeling doors. Mistake four.

  These guys were not really trying. Maybe they didn't expect trouble?

  Do-rag pounded on the side door and a couple of skinny guys wearing jeans that sagged half-way down their asses stumbled out into the sunlight. They made several trips with Do-rag to unload his cargo and carry them into the house. Either the boxes were heavy or Do-rag and his pals were weaklings.

  From his spot in the trees, Doug could see the shed also held an old hatchback and some rusty farm equipment and shapeless piles of rubbish. After the last trip to the van, Do-rag and his helpers left the doors open. Mistake five. These clowns weren't even trying.

  But none of the three matched the photograph Doug had been given of Flamethrower.

  The open shed called to him, so Doug slipped inside and poked about. He picked up a whiff of the suspect. Under the piles of ancient debris he spotted a shiny ATV. Hmm. Suspect's spoor was all over it.

  Doug popped open the locked hatchback with the little tool Alexander had lent him. Useful little puppy. The car's interior also smelled strongly of the bomber. The vehicle probably had his DNA all over it. But they had DNA. What they needed was DNA with provenance. He photographed the plates.

  The explosives rigged to take care of the shed had been tucked underneath the broken pitchforks, bent shovels, and wooden crates of dusty coke bottles. Doug followed the wires to the electronic fuse. Was he looking at Flamethrower's back up plan? Did Do-rag and his skinny accomplices know their lair was mined?

  A large bottle of water lay forgotten in the litter. Doug poured it over the remote fuse. Well accidents happened. He tagged all three vehicles with the trackers Alexander had given him, and returned to his position to wait. Half of hunting was waiting. The other half was patience.

  At seventeen hundred five Do-rag came out and found the shed hanging open. Doug enjoyed the subsequent tantrum before Do-rag climbed into his van and peeled out leaving the doors propped wide. He was half-way down the track before he noticed his error. He had to reverse to close them. Doug gave it a four out of five for entertainment value.

  Shortly after Do-rag departed, at seventeen hundred fifteen, a man with ramrod erect posture walked out the door. This was neither of the Do-rag's shambling helpers. Ramrod was dressed from head to toe in a white hazmat suit. Only his boots and gloves were ordinary biker black.

  Under his white hood, Ramrod wore a black balaclava. Had to be hot. This was a careful dude. He had an AK47 slung across his back. Doug took some more photos.

  Ramrod headed for the woods moving carefully and avoiding the trip wires as if he knew where they were. Twenty-three minutes later he returned by a different route. He paused to look up and down the track before he crossed the yard and banged on the side door. So Ramrod was indeed a cautious bugger. Was this Flamethrower?

  It got dark and damp around twenty-one hundred hours. Nobody came or went from the farmhouse. Doug hunkered down with his freeze-dried rations and prepared to endure a night of matchless tedium with the mosquitoes.

  At twenty-three fifteen a man emerged. He
was now dressed in unremarkable khaki pants and a black polo. His short light brown hair was neat but equally unremarkable. As was his small black duffel. Only his posture betrayed that he was Ramrod.

  Doug snapped Ramrod's photograph from three angles while the suspect was unlocking the shed with the help of a tiny hand held LED. He got a nice clean shot when Ramrod looked around sharply after he relocked the shed.

  When the hatchback had driven down the track, Doug risked a penlight to look at the pictures. Ramrod was Flamethrower. Of course the ID was not complete. He still needed Flamethrower's DNA. But at least Alexander was tracking the right bastard.