I squatted in some kind of dense shrub, being careful of the paper wasps’ nest on the branch next to me. Wasp nests are abandoned when the weather turns cold, but there hadn’t been any hard frosts yet and the gray ball of paper might not be vacant. You’ve heard of being mad as a wasp? So have I. It was best to assume that the winged ones were just not early risers.
Indignation grew as I smelled the coffee perking on the camp stove. Its odor was wonderful and I was aware of being hungry. I could hear two voices down by the stream and someone snoring in the least damaged tent. No one else was around. That meant the party had split up at the river. That was good. It evened up the odds a bit.
Overcome by a mix of rage and insanity, I cracked open the laxative, rushed to the coffee pot, and pulled off the lid. My fingers got burned and a spurt of water hissed on the stove as I dumped the entire bottle of clear liquid into the tin pot and then slammed on the lid.
The snoring stopped as the lid scraped the pot and I jumped back into my bush expecting shouts and disaster. For a second I couldn’t hear anything above the thudding of my heart, but then the log-sawer started in again.
I exhaled slowly. Something buzzed in my left ear, gaining my attention. It was a lone wasp, moving slowly and sounding cranky at being woken so early. Still under the influence of temporary insanity, I grabbed the nest and then tossed it into the more ruined tent through the hole in its side. Someone was going to get a nasty surprise when they went to pack it up.
Not waiting to see what happened, I raced back into the woods and then worked my way back down to the creek when I was a safe distance away.
About two minutes later I heard shouting. I hoped they weren’t so upset by the wasps that they failed to drink their coffee.
I almost forgot that I was supposed to be getting water, but remembered in time to collect the old pot that I’d left by the stream.
Chuck had a small fire going when I returned. He looked alert and almost happy. The rest had done him a world of good.
It seemed likely our followers would be busy for a while, perhaps even so discouraged that they would give up the hunt, so we took the time to heat the water and use the last of the instant coffee, sweetened with the last of the sugar and some crushed mints.
While I sipped the syrupy and surprisingly tasty coffee, I had an inner debate about telling Chuck what I had done, but decided it was kinder not to worry him after the fact. I didn’t want him thinking I was a psycho and knew that my guerilla raid on the enemy camp was on the borderline. Okay, over the line. But damn it all—this mess wasn’t Chuck’s fault, and I was damned if I was going to let him get hurt because of my father. And Anatoli didn’t need any more grief either. If I could get them off our trail before we reached Seven Forks, so much the better for everyone.
They say that you should carry rancor to the grave but no further. I hoped that someday I would be able to put my rage aside, but that wasn’t the morning for beating swords into plowshares and turning the other cheek. After Chuck and I were safe and these thugs were dead or arrested, then I would work on forgiving my parent. Until then, I needed my anger to keep me warm.
* * *
Chuck kicked dirt over their small fire and then, as had gotten to be a habit, he patted his coat pocket. It was still there, the little velvet box. Not that there was time for it now, and certainly this was an inauspicious place. But later—if they lived and as soon as his inconsiderate treatment of his leg muscles allowed him to kneel—he would find a candle and a bottle of wine—or a pot of tea. Tea and scones would be good. And then he would give her the necklace and tell her, formally, how he felt about her.
Hopefully by then he would have some organized thoughts to express.
* * *
It was cold, the kind of cold you feel in your bones. Jimmy Nine Toes had just finished his second cup of coffee, but still he could feel the bitter cold digging into his hide like a thousand ice picks. Jimmy pulled the spare parka he’d borrowed from Tony, his right-hand man, more closely around his body. Still he could not get warm. Fucking wilderness. Fucking wasps. They should chop down every damn tree, shoot every bear, and cement it over.
Jimmy choked up a belch that tasted rather chemical. A massive gurgling ran through his intestines as what had to be the world’s largest gas bubble screamed to be set free. Lifting a leg, Jimmy squeezed his muscles hard to put some force behind its release. Though the burning mess that he expelled into his pants was not a gas bubble, it could not be termed a solid. Jimmy’s eyes shot wide in panic. He tried to cinch down on the unexpected torrent but it was no use.
Jumping to his feet, Jimmy duck walked in a fast hobble several feet into the woods. There he pulled his pants down and squatted during the remainder of the release. More was to follow. Much more. As he paused, waiting for the next convulsive spasm to pass, he heard the sounds of others around him experiencing the same uncomfortable gastrointestinal anomalies. He hoped to God they didn’t attract any more bears.
He recognized the taste now. His grandma used to feed him the same crap when he got constipated as a kid. Only it had never done this to him. And Jimmy knew who was responsible for this.
“I’m going to kill that bitch!” Jimmy muttered under his breath as he waited to be done with the involuntary spasms. “I’m going to put a bullet in every organ of her body and then saw her head off.”
Chapter 10
Danny “the Wings” Jones-McIntyre stood on the tarmac of Winnipeg’s James Armstrong Richardson International Airport with his body half-buried under the maintenance hatch of his motley Beach 18 working on the engine. He grunted and strained, throwing all his weight behind a lug wrench, which eventually gave way on a stripped nut and tore through the fuel line.
“Crap,” Danny exclaimed, blowing on his scraped knuckles as fuel began to leak from the split hose.
The Wings frantically reached into his back pocket to retrieve the roll of duct tape that he always kept there. The fuel line was almost solid silver from having already been patched multiple times. Danny deftly ripped off a swath of tape and applied it to the leak in the hose. The patch held. He smiled at the fact that he’d saved himself the $53 replacement cost of a new fuel line, but at the same time realized that he would have to replace the line soon before the rubber completely disintegrated and it became nothing but duct tape. After all, safety had to eventually become a primary concern.
The Wings saw the practical black wingtips come to a halt beside him before he looked up to take in the black suit. He never even bothered with the face. It took only an instant for him to determine that he wanted nothing to do with whatever the suit wanted. So he ignored the face sticking out of the black suit and buried his head back in the engine compartment of his plane.
“Are you Danny ‘the Wings’ Jones-McIntyre?” the suit asked.
“Nope,” Danny replied.
Danny saw that the practical black wingtips didn’t move, but neither did the face speak for some time.
“But that man over there just told me that you are the Wings.”
The Wings pulled his head out of the engine compartment long enough to see where the suit was pointing. Then he returned to his tinkering.
“That’s Henry over there. Henry’s an inveterate liar,” Danny informed the man.
“Then you’re not Danny Jones-McIntyre?”
Danny released a sigh of disgust. Apparently he wasn’t going to get rid of this man as easily as he had hoped. He pulled his head out of the engine compartment to consider the suit. He didn’t like what he saw. He liked even less the fact that there were two more suits standing behind him.
“What do you want?”
“I want to book a flight to McIntyre’s Gulch.”
“Sorry, never heard of the place.”
“But don’t you fly supplies in and out of McIntyre’s Gulch?”
“Who wants to know?”
“Look, this is important police business we’re conducting.”
&nb
sp; “Oh? Can I see your badge?”
Having recognized the man for a cop at first sight, and an American one at that by his accent, Danny assumed there was something queer going on when the man didn’t flash his badge right off the bat. Assuming the man would now go away, Danny buried his head back in the engine compartment.
“We need to get to the Gulch by tonight.”
“Why?”
“Would you mind stopping what you’re doing long enough for us to have a conversation?”
“I can’t. I’m late already.”
“For what?”
“Flying supplies into McIntyre’s Gulch,” Danny replied with a wry chuckle.
“But you just said you never heard of the place.”
“You must not have heard me right.”
“Then you can fly us to the Gulch.”
Danny extricated himself from the engine compartment to finish the man off with one last statement of the facts.
“First of all, it’s McIntyre’s Gulch, not the Gulch. Second, I fly supplies in and out of McIntyre’s Gulch, not people. Third, I’m late and have to get moving,” he concluded, slamming the engine compartment hatch and latching it shut.
“So, you’ve never flown anyone to McIntyre’s Gulch before?”
“I’ve flown a friend or two.”
“I’ll pay you double.”
“You don’t even know how much I’d charge.”
“I don’t care.”
Danny stood wiping his greasy hands on a rag and considering the man who would not give up before breaking out in a broad smile. The wide stretch of lips was not reassuring.
“Well, why didn’t you say so in the first place? Welcome aboard, mister.”
Danny reached out his hand and the suit shook it. When the man released Danny’s hand, he held it out in front of him to examine the grease stains.
“Sorry about that,” Danny said, handing the man his grease-stained rag.
The suit accepted the rag and did the best he could with it to clean his hand. When he was done, he handed the rag back to the Wings.
“Climb onboard, fellas. This is likely to be one hell of a ride.”
“Reese, Dawson, get in the back.”
The one named Dawson climbed onboard readily enough, but the one named Reese paused before boarding.
“This plane is safe, isn’t it?”
“What do you mean?” Danny asked as drops of rain began to fall.
“I mean, it’s been properly maintained and inspected.”
Danny laughed out loud as he walked around the plane to climb into the pilot’s seat.
“You Americans. You have one hell of a sense of humor.”
Reese climbed shakily into the back seat, beginning to sweat bullets. The man in the black suit released a sigh of frustration as he climbed into the copilot’s seat. Yes, he thought, this was likely to be one hell of a ride.
* * *
The sky looked like concrete. My head felt the same, but if our luck and the weather held we would be to Seven Forks by dark. Big John would have phoned Anatoli and warned him—shelter and protection would be waiting. And food, lots of food.
“I’m hungry for pizza,” I said.
“What kind?” Chuck asked, trudging just slightly behind me. The trees were close enough that we couldn’t walk two abreast in most places.
“Zucchini and anchovy.”
“Huh. Too healthy. I want bacon and pineapple with red onion.”
“Pineapple? Too silly.”
“I like pizza with a sense of humor,” the Mountie replied. “And a bit of sweet to offset the tart and crazy.”
I thought maybe he was talking about me.
“Hm. Okay, bacon and pineapple with red onion. But only to prove that I have a sense of humor too.”
“I’ve never thought you lacking in humor.”
No, I thought, just good sense.
All this talk of food was making my stomach growl.
“How to you feel about goose for Thanksgiving?” Thanksgiving in Canada is in October and not November like the States.
“I like anything except anchovies.” But he smiled at me as he said this and I was glad that he thought maybe we would still be together at Thanksgiving.
Before I could begin feeling too rosy, a flock of birds rose into the sky. Given that birds prefer to roost during a storm, I had to assume that our followers were still blundering after us. Though they weren’t far behind as the crow flies, the terrain was rough and I refused to worry that they might be getting closer.
I couldn’t let fear engulf me. Or Chuck. Panic in the wilderness will get you dead.
Trying to be subtle, I picked up the pace.
* * *
I will not puke. I will not puke. I will not puke. Agent Reese continued the litany over and over again in his mind in the hopes that it would distract him from the realization that he was thousands of feet in the air flying in a poorly maintained small aircraft with a crazy man at the controls—all of which made him want to puke. However, the drone of the twin engines and the constant shaking of the plane caused by turbulence would not allow him to ignore these pertinent facts. Just when he thought he might have tamed his out-of-control nerves, the plane gave a massive lurch and dropped several dozen feet in altitude. The engines groaned, propellers digging into the air in an attempt to regain their previous elevation and speed.
“Ack!” Reese screamed. “What was that?”
“Just a low pressure pocket of air. Nothing to worry about,” the Wings assured him. “It happens all the time when crossing over the mountains.”
The cabin of the plane returned to relative silence below the hum of the engines. Agent Reese recommenced his litany. Then the Wings began tapping one of the gauges on his control panel.
“Uh-oh,” said Danny.
“Uh-oh!” Reese responded. “Uh-oh what? What uh-ho? Why uh-oh? What does ‘uh-oh’ mean?”
The Wings started to chuckle uncontrollably and slap at his knee.
“Relax, Agent Reese. The pilot is just messing with your head,” Desoto said hopefully.
“Why, you rotten, no good.…” Reese declared as he grabbed for Danny over the back of the pilot’s seat.
“Hey, settle down!” Dawson insisted, pulling Reese off the pilot.
“My, but you are a touchy one,” the Wings noted.
“Mr. Jones-McIntyre, I’d appreciate it if you would just fly the plane,” Desoto suggested.
“You’ve got it, boss.”
Reese tried to settle himself down, but the Wings wouldn’t let it go.
“You’re not going to puke back there, are you?” he asked. “Because if you are, there’s an old coffee can under your seat that I’d appreciate you using.”
Silence.
“You know, I once had someone puke so hard in my plane that they puked up their kidney. All pink and soft it was.”
Silence.
“Boy, I sure hope we don’t crash,” the Wings added, and then he threw the plane into a deep dive. “Yeehaw!”
“Aaaaaaaaaaah!” Reese screamed.
When they finally leveled out, Reese went scrambling for the coffee can stored under his seat. To the sounds of Danny’s maniacal laughter and Desoto and Dawson moaning, Reese proceeded to fill the can with remnants of his last few meals, and just possibly a portion of his kidney.
“You’ve never been to the Gulch before, have you?” the Wings commented.
“Nope. First time,” Desoto admitted.
“They’re a peculiar lot, the people who live in the Gulch.”
“Wouldn’t that include you?”
“Nope. I speak English. Most of them in the Gulch only speak Gaelic. They do have a bit of the French though. How’s your French, partner?”
“Poor,” Desoto admitted.
“Oh well. There’s always pantomime.”
Though the retching in the backseat had subsided, the smell was beginning to permeate the cabin.
“
Don’t you go spilling any of that back there,” the Wings warned.
“Oh Lord, please get us to our destination soon,” Dawson moaned.
“You’re in luck. We’re here,” the Wings declared, putting the plane into another steep dive.
“Aaaaaaaah!” Reese screamed as they made a low pass over McIntyre’s Gulch. Rain splattered the window as they tore through the low clouds.
The Wings banked hard and came back around for his landing approach. As the plane settled down toward the ground, it soon became apparent to everyone what he planned on doing.
“You’re not actually going to land this plane on the street, are you?” Desoto asked.
“It’s smooth and wide and makes for a shorter walk into town,” Danny explained.
“Aaaaaaaah!” Reese screamed as the buildings on Main Street flashed past the wing tips.
The Wings touched the plane down smoothly and taxied to a position in front of the general store. Reese was the first out of the plane, stumbling onto all fours and breathing heavily. Desoto and Dawson followed at a more leisurely pace. A large man descended the stairs of the general store and came to a halt before the visitors.
“’S tu fehein an coigreach! Failte,” the large man said in greeting.
“Reese, Dawson, get the bags,” Desoto groaned as he slipped past the large man in a rush to get inside out of the cold and rain.
Chapter 11
The tangled briars weren’t impassable, if you were a mouse or had a chainsaw and lots of time and blood to spare, but it wasn’t hyperbole to call the thicket that ran the length of the gorge inhospitable. Possibly there was a deer trail somewhere, but I hadn’t a clue where to start looking.
“We go around, right?” Chuck tried to brush the rainwater off his face but it was coming down too hard for it to make any difference.
“No, we go up.”
“But.…” Chuck gazed up the trunks of the few trees that weren’t buried in wicked vines. They were leafless and looked dead.
“We’ll lose too much time if we go around and if we do there may not be any way to cross. And if we can shake these assholes here, we are home free. Seven Forks and Anatoli’s cabin are only a quarter mile away.”
Gone South (A Butterscotch Jones Mystery Book 3) Page 7