We heard angry voices.
“This way,” I said and started down the hill where there were boulders to hide behind while we worked our way toward the stream.
There were few deciduous trees in these woods, but those growing there were doing their level best to bury our trail. The rain and rising wind made the falling leaves stick to us in spatters of gold and rust that offered a kind of camouflage. When possible we walked on pine needles or stone. The pine castoffs were slippery but they didn’t take prints.
Fallen limbs were everywhere, victims of the early winter that had stricken green boughs still heavy with leaves and needles when the snows came.
“They’re still behind us,” Chuck said softly.
Most city people would call it a day when their quarry left the sidewalks and went into the wild. This group was ambitious. There was no lowering of expectations just because they were heading into the heart of darkness with a storm coming on. I figured that either they had a local guide, or they were very arrogant. I was hoping for the latter. Arrogance would get them killed faster than anything.
After an hour, I called a halt. We needed to rest and I hadn’t heard any voices for a while.
“I hate hiking,” Chuck said in a mild voice as he brushed leaves out of his hair. The rain was taking a break.
“Me too. But we’re going to be fine,” I said, kneeling and opening Chuck’s survival pack. “These guys may be super badasses in the city where they can predict everything. But they’re in my country now.” I almost believed this. “Now let’s see what we have to work with.”
The list wasn’t bad. We had a thermal blanket, a flashlight, some basic first aid supplies, packets of instant coffee and sugar, an orange flare gun, a butane lighter, and a bottle of laxative. I raised a brow at Chuck as I held up the last item.
“I hate drinking stream water. It’s unsanitary.” He colored. When he spoke again, he sounded defensive. “Fish spawn in it. Animals defecate and die everywhere. So I don’t drink it.”
“And?”
“And you get constipated if you don’t drink fluids for a week.”
“Oh. Well, it may come in handy.”
“I sincerely hope we aren’t out here that long.”
“We won’t be. And I know of an abandoned cabin near here. So we’ll have shelter for the night. And I’m a good fisherman, so we’ll have something for dinner. Tomorrow we will hook up with Anatoli and the boys. It’s going to be okay.”
Before Chuck could answer, we again heard voices. I couldn’t imagine why the morons were making so much noise. Perhaps they had fanned out and were afraid of losing each other as they searched.
I repacked the rucksack and we started on our way. Not a quarter mile on I ran into a thriving patch of poison ivy, all shiny orange and dripping with white berries. It might be too much to hope that our pursuers would be dumb enough to actually fall for it, but in case they were really that ignorant, I was going to try and fake them right into the stuff.
“Chuck, be careful not to break any limbs on the trees over there.” I pointed to the left. “I want you to go around this poison ivy without leaving a trail.”
He stared at the bright orange and red leaves and then turned away. I picked up a fallen branch and started swinging it, making a narrow path through the vines. I am not particularly allergic, but I was careful not to get any on my hands and only went in about six feet and then abandoned my fake trail. We needed to keep moving and I couldn’t invest more than a couple minutes in a trap that might not work. I hoped at least some of them would fall for it. Poison ivy is bad at any time of the year, but at its magnificent worst in the fall. A bad rash would offer serious discouragement.
I would like to have known how many of them there were on our trail, but the rest of the problem was pretty obvious. We knew who they were—bad guys—and where they were—approximately—and what they were after. I might have been tempted to offer them a trade, the stick for our lives, but I knew Chuck wouldn’t go for it. And I was pretty sure they would try to kill us anyway. Our best option was to keep moving and try to lose them.
* * *
“Mr. James,” Tony said tentatively. “It’s the boss. I guess your phone is dead. Mine isn’t sounding too good either.”
Jimmy didn’t swear out loud, but Tony thought he might as well have. His face was looking ugly as the bruise spread over his scar and he was clearly still pissed off at losing their vehicles.
Jimmy ground his teeth for a moment and then held out his hand for the phone.
“Yes?” he said. “Speak up. I can’t hear you.”
* * *
Though it was slightly off course, I detoured into the edge of bear territory. I didn’t mention to Chuck what I was doing. So far, he was doing really well with the hiking through the wild thing, but the whole not drinking from streams explanation kind of clued me in about his level of wilderness enjoyment. I was out of my comfort zone, but Chuck was redlining.
Chuck didn’t notice anything, but I began to see tufts of dark hair stuck to some of the trees. I started keeping eyes and ears open for more than voices.
Bears are curious creatures. There are lots of theories about how to deal with them and each species is different in temperament. With black bears, your best shot is to fight them, to make noise and look big and mean. Sometimes you can frighten them away or discourage them with a fist to the nose. With grizzlies, it is better to fall down and play dead. Polar bears—well, just say your prayers. There wouldn’t be any polar bears in these woods, but grizzlies and black bears were a possibility. The other thing about bears in the autumn is that they are just walking nose, olfactory organs on legs, looking for food so they can get fat and hibernate.
From the occasional cursing, I could tell that others were still on our trail, but falling further behind all the time. Also, the voices seemed fewer and I wondered if they had split up, some going south along the stream. On my own, since the moon was full and the rain had stopped, I might have been tempted to travel by night, but not with Chuck. We would need to make camp.
“This is a nice clearing,” the Mountie said. It was clear because bears had been using it. Probably a mother and cubs. The brambles that edged the glade were almost stripped but a few blackberries remained.
“Yes. I’m hoping our followers will choose to stay here for the night.”
“Why?” Chuck asked, stopping beside me.
“Because I’m going to leave them a present. Let me see your pack.”
Chuck handed it over without argument. I opened it up and took two of the sugar packets. I chose sugar over my mints. Some herbs repel bears and I couldn’t recall if mint was one of them.
“Gather some berries.”
“They look pretty sorry,” Chuck objected. “I saw better ones back a ways.”
“They aren’t for us. I’m making bear bait.”
The Mountie blinked and then smiled. It was the first lightening of expression I had seen in hours.
“They’ll smell the sugar and berries?”
“Yes.” And the blood. Some people believe it is myth, but Big John had always warned me and the Flowers to stay out of the woods while menstruating because bears are drawn to the smell of blood and their noses are as keen as any dog’s.
Using a flat rock that had flaked away from its parent boulder, I took the handful of berries Chuck offered and sprinkled them with sugar. A smaller rock served as a muddler. Then, taking a small folding knife out of my cross-body bag, I inserted the blade in my nose and made a small cut. I chose the nose because it bleeds easily and because I could contain the blood with a bunched tissue. I wanted the smell to stay in the clearing, not send bears after us.
“Butterscotch!” Poor Chuck was horrified. I leaned over the stone and let the blood dribble on the berries. After a moment I stuffed a tissue in my nose and tilted my head back. Using my thumb I applied pressure to the wounded nostril.
“Take this gunk and smear it on the bac
ksides of rocks and bushes,” I instructed. “Don’t put any where the thugs will see it. We don’t want them warned. Be quick. We need to get out before the bears arrive.”
“Will they come soon?” Chuck asked.
“I hope not. They’ve been nesting here at night. If we are lucky, they won’t come back until full dark. But I don’t want to chance it. It’s getting late and the cabin is a ways farther on.”
From his haste, I could see Chuck agreed about not being around when the bears returned.
We had perhaps an hour of daylight when I found the remains of the cabin. It had deteriorated over the years. The floor was covered in silt. Clearly the stream had flooded the shack in the not so distant past. The builder had been crazy to choose a spot so near the river. You know what they say—location, location, location. But we were in no danger of floods that night and it put a roof over our heads and some walls between us and the wild. A determined bear could get inside, but Chuck probably didn’t know that. And I wouldn’t tell him since he seemed to finally be relaxing.
I picked up a dented aluminum pot that had cemented itself in the mud. There were some desiccated pinecones and broken limbs washed into the corner that were the right size for kindling. There was also a fine selection of cobwebs, but they were filthy and their owners had moved on long ago.
“Can you start a fire?”
“Sure. In here?”
We looked up. No chimney vent.
“No. Better do it outside in case it smokes. I’m going to go catch some dinner. That stream should be good for something besides covering our tracks.”
“What? You mean you’re going fishing?” Chuck sounded a little panicked.
“Yes.”
“Without a rod?”
And without me?
“I don’t need one. And I know you don’t like drinking stream water, but we are going to boil up some coffee first thing and you are going to drink it. We have been working hard and we are both dehydrated.”
“Okay.” Chuck sounded dubious. “You want the gun?”
“You keep it.” Then I repeated the same words I’d been saying all day. “It’s going to be okay.”
* * *
Jimmy Nine Toes walked at the tail end of a column of men, allowing the others ahead of him to clear a trail. He wheezed heavily though he carried nothing but a small attaché case containing his personal belongings, depending upon his subordinates to pack in the camping gear and heavy equipment. They stopped to take a much needed breather when his lead enforcer and right-hand man, Tony Scarlatti, called the column to a halt. Jimmy had put Tony in charge of leading the pursuit since he knew that Tony had once been a Boy Scout. Tony worked his way back along the line of men until he came to Jimmy, who was exhausted from the exertion of tromping through the forest for the last several hours.
“It’s almost nightfall, Mr. James,” Tony said. “There’s a clearing up ahead that should be perfect for setting up our base camp.”
“Alright. Have the men start unpacking the tents and camping gear and clearing the space of debris. I’ll leave it to you to set up the communications array.”
“Yes, sir.”
Jimmy used a silk handkerchief he pulled from the pocket of his business coat to wipe the sweat from his brow. His leather shoes were a mess but there hadn’t been time to order hiking boots that would fit his custom orthotic. Having nine toes was a bitch.
Tony worked his way back to the head of the column, issuing orders along the way as to who was to do what. The exhausted men spread out when they reached the clearing, looking more like a well-organized group of soldiers than the rabble of street punks and murderers that they really were. It was too bad about that poison ivy they’d wandered into before Tony could stop them. Some of the guys were already scratching.
Jimmy tried his cell phone and, sure enough, received no signal. He would have to wait for the satellite communications dish to be set up and aligned to call in to his boss. Meanwhile he took a seat on a rock and removed his coat and tie. Watching as his men read instructions and tried to figure out how to set up the tents, Jimmy realized that they were all out of their element in these woods and that things could get dicey if they didn’t pay attention to their surroundings. Jimmy had become disgusted with the slow progress his team was making in setting up their base camp when Tony approached to inform him that the satellite link was up.
“This is Pursuit Force One calling HQ,” Jimmy said, using the preestablished call signals after having slipped on the radio headset. He felt stupid, but his employer insisted.
“Jimmy, where the hell are you?” his boss replied, completely ignoring the agreed upon communications protocol.
“Somewhere in the woods, miles west of Winnipeg.”
“You might as well say you’re somewhere in fucking Canada, dammit. What the hell are you doing there?”
“We’re in pursuit of our target who has led us into the wilderness.”
“Then you failed in your mission?”
“Not yet,” Jimmy replied in annoyance.
“Well get it done and get back here as soon as possible.”
“As soon as possible. Are the Feds nosing around?”
“Yeah. And Jimmy?”
“Yes.”
“I’m not happy.”
“I realize that, sir.”
The line went dead. Jimmy slipped off the headset and set it aside. He watched as one of his men nearly poked his eye out with a tent support. Another man was crouched before a stack of wood holding the flame from a Bic lighter to the end of a stick.
Yes, they were definitely out of their element here. The other team was probably just as inept. They’d get lost or eaten by bears.
Jimmy was enraged at the thought that this could possibly be the way that his career came to an end. Someone was going to have to pay for this.
Chapter 9
Armed only with a small portable flashlight and a desperate need to relieve himself, the Mountie struck out on his own into the woods. Almost immediately upon leaving Butterscotch’s side he felt as if he’d left planet Earth and set foot on some foreign, vegetation-choked landscape. The silence of the dark woods around him, periodically punctuated by a howl, hoot, or scurrying amongst the leaves, set his nerves on edge. Though he felt like returning right away to their makeshift camp, he knew he couldn’t, his need being too desperate.
Wanting his privacy but afraid to go any farther into the woods, Chuck made do with dropping his drawers behind a large tree. He set the flashlight aside and it rolled away, turning itself off in the process. Great, he thought, now I’ll need to crawl around through the bushes and probably get ticks.
Chuck tried to concentrate but found that he could make no progress. Isn’t that always the way, he thought. Then he heard a loud howl from nearby and was instantly done faster than he thought possible. He remained crouching quietly beside the tree but heard nothing more from the woods around him. Scraping up some leaves, he cleaned himself off as best he could.
It took him some time to find the flashlight. When he finally found it, he stood upright and realized that he didn’t know which way to go to return to Butterscotch. Panic gripped him. It was dark, he was alone in the woods, he was being tracked by hardened criminals, and he was lost. He shined the flashlight this way and that, but all paths looked the same.
“Butterscotch,” he called in a mere whisper. “Butterscotch,” he called louder as he walked forward. “Butterscotch!” he yelled when he was sure he would never be found.
Chuck almost relieved himself a second time when he felt the hand grab his shoulder. Spinning, he found Butterscotch standing before him.
“Chuck, not so loud,” she whispered. “We can’t be too sure how far away the thugs have made camp.”
Chuck said nothing, though he wanted to cry out he was so happy to have been found. Taking his hand, Butterscotch led him confidently through the trees to the camp she’d been working on in his absence. It smelled of woo
d smoke, fish, and coffee.
* * *
“What will happen if they find your Rover?” The “they” I referred to was not our thuggish shadows but rather Chuck’s colleagues in law enforcement.
“I hope they don’t. There aren’t enough lies to stuff this genie back in the bottle if it ever gets out.” Clearly his optimism was again on life support. I tried not to sigh. One crisis at a time.
I tucked the survival blanket around him and then used the car blanket as a shawl. Poor Chuck was asleep almost at once. I sat up in the dark, catnapping from time to time, but mostly keeping the midnight vigil so that Chuck would be safe. He needed rest more than I did.
Our borrowed cabin was like Paradise, only with cold and mice and a leaky roof. In spite of the car blanket and the gentle patter of rain off and on through the night, I was up at dawn and ready to be up and doing. Chuck was still sleeping, a slumber of profound weariness and terror, so I left my cross-body bag, which now held the memory stick and a note saying that I had gone to answer the call of nature and to fetch water for coffee, and that he should make up the fire while I was gone.
I took the gun, the pot, and the laxative and went to check on our followers.
It meant backtracking for almost an hour and I called myself all kinds of synonyms for idiot when I came across a mountain lion drinking from the stream. It chuffed at me, but offered no challenge. I gave it wide berth.
When you live in a forest you come to know its sounds and silences. A crackle of broken pine needles could mean anything, but you know when it’s moose and when it’s bear. And when it’s human. The smell of fire is almost always the final clue.
The camp surprised and disappointed me. The villains had come prepared with tents and a camp stove. The tents were clawed in places but I didn’t see any bodies or pools of blood, so had to assume that the bears had been chased away before anyone was killed. Clearly, bears in this part of the woods were slackers. Bears at the Gulch would have eaten them down to their eyeballs.
Gone South (A Butterscotch Jones Mystery Book 3) Page 6