Chapter 13
Big John whispered to me in Gaelic that the American police were still here in the pub. I relayed this to Chuck and Anatoli as we got out of the Jeep. A still rather pale Chuck grimaced once as he adjusted his arm sling, but instantly straightened, assuming a professional demeanor. It almost compensated for his red and black plaid shirt and blue and green checked sling. Anatoli had sacrificed his ugliest shirts for us.
Chuck would have been happier to do without the plaid badge of honor, but it wasn’t an option. The bullet had nicked the bone and torn through muscle. Because the Bones treated him, there was no official record of a gunshot wound, but Chuck would need a story when he went back to work.
We walked into the pub. The dim light was comforting after the sunshine outside. I had done a lot of crying and not much sleeping after Chuck was shot and my eyes were tired.
To be polite, I waited for formal introductions, but I knew who these men were—or rather what they were. Big John was wrong. They were much more than run-of-the-mill city police.
It was also obvious from body language who was in charge. The head agent looked grim and was trying for formal dignity, though the bright colored clothing he wore did a great deal to detract from his air of authority. I would have to commend the Braids on finally ridding herself of the apparel that the devil goat had slept on. Nice animal, but as evil smelling as a wild pig. She had washed the garments repeatedly in every type of detergent but the scent refused to fade.
I glanced at the strangers’ shoes. City footwear. The leader was wearing shoes that were cared for, but worn. The attentive agent to the left had on shoes that were new and polished though spattered with mud. The other agent, the one glancing nervously around the room, had shoes that were worn and not clean. His posture was also slumped and he looked defeated. I was guessing he wasn’t a good flyer.
It was a snap judgment but I didn’t feel that the agent in charge was like the other men in dark glasses who had come to town, men untouched by the kinds of scruples, or humanity, that would get in the way of doing a job. That didn’t mean that these guys were pushovers though, in spite of the pink and orange clothing.
“I am Agent Desoto of the FBI. These are agents Dawson and Reese,” the leader said, confirming my guess about them. “I am investigating an informant’s death. In Duluth.” He paused, considering what to say. I think Big John, Sasha, and the Flowers standing in line like a Greek chorus inhibited him. Or maybe it was Anatoli and Sasha slouching at the bar and playing with a deck of cards. Though trying for casual, they still looked dangerous. I was relieved that the agent didn’t say anything about the dead man being my father. Of course, that didn’t mean that he wasn’t aware of the connection, merely that he wasn’t making it widely known.
“The man who died was helping us collect evidence against a violent crime lord. The evidence would put this evil creature away forever and shut down his organization. Unfortunately, our man died before he could hand it over. We assume that the opposition didn’t get the evidence either since Jimmy Nine Toes and several of the goons crossed the border into Canada hours after you did.” This time he looked at Chuck. “We were concerned about your well-being after the break-in. Especially if you have this evidence hidden somewhere.”
I didn’t mention that these goons probably wouldn’t be a problem anymore and Chuck didn’t say anything either.
The two agents stayed silent as Desoto spoke, but one was still watching me intently. It seemed odd that I was of more interest to him than Chuck was. Usually law enforcement prefers to deal with its own kind.
“Miss Jones?” Agent Desoto prompted.
I wondered if it was true that my father was an informant. If so, I was certain that it was only because he needed protection from the violent crime lord and someone had offered him money and a way out of whatever trap he’d dug himself into.
Not that this mattered. For whatever reason, he had been willing to do the right thing. For a while. Until I came along and he saw a chance out of his trap and to maybe make a buck later. After all, he could have contacted the FBI if he had really wanted to.
I looked at Chuck and waited for his decision. Since this was a problem that began in the States, I was inclined to give the damn memory stick to Desoto and get them out of the Gulch and out of our lives, but this was his call. He’d taken a bullet. If he wanted in on this wasp nest of an investigation then he had earned the right to a place at the table. It was up to him.
Agent Desoto looked me over while he waited for an answer, and unless he was as blind as a mole, I know what he saw. I had cleaned up at Anatoli’s but I still didn’t look like the kind of person who worked nine to five and had a retirement plan. The clothes were clean but borrowed and ill fitting and plaid. My hair, stubborn on the best of days, had a more discouraging look than usual and was acting large. Chuck wasn’t exactly dressed for success either. We were also standing under half a moth-eaten moose, so unless Desoto was as nonjudgmental as Mother Theresa, he was probably writing all of us off as hicks. And that suited me fine. Hicks were of no use to anyone.
“It goes against the grain, but give it to him,” Chuck said. “Never mind glory. I want to be shut of this.”
I nodded. I’d been feeling that nothing more could be done to us by the outside world, but that was completely untrue. There is always something worse that can happen. It would be good if someone else could deal with the bad guys, or at least get the word out to the crime boss that the FBI had the evidence—not me.
I put my hand in my pocket and felt the bit of plastic my father had dropped there. It was my only legacy. Old memories of my parent had been jarred awake and were clamoring for attention even through my fatigue. The thing is that no matter how hard you pedal you still get nowhere on a stationary bike. I needed to climb down and move on. My father was dead. He had done all the evil he was going to do. And Chuck was alive, deserving more than my old bitterness and troubles.
It was time to let the rancor go. Time to forget, or at least time to stop renting out space in my head to these old grievances and problems. Time to give the damn memory stick to this agent and get it out of our town and lives.
“Can I see some ID?” I asked, just for form’s sake.
“Certainly.” Agent Desoto showed me his shield.
“There is one condition. I can’t enforce it, but I want your word.” Desoto raised an eyebrow. “You don’t say where you got this. You and your men don’t mention the Gulch or anyone in it. Not me, not Chuck. Not in writing, not in person. We don’t exist.”
“Fair enough. We’re not here officially. Not everyone in my department would be pleased that we had followed this matter over the border. We won’t leave any trails that lead back to you.” The other agents looked surprised at this admission.
It has been said that strength lies in the mouth of a gun. But there can be even greater strength in a well-told lie. Gulchers are stealthy with strangers and adept at subterfuge. Few people are and we know our own kind when we see them. These agents weren’t here for any sinister purpose. It was just that Desoto was a bloodhound, and he would be willing to lie if it got him what he wanted. Against my will, I found myself smiling a little.
I nodded and handed the memory stick to Desoto and then wished my father a last goodbye.
“And, Daddy dearest, may you be in heaven a half an hour before the devil knows your dead,” I muttered to my parent in Gaelic, which got me an odd look from one of the other agents.
“Co as a tha thu?” I asked him straightly.
“Trenton. But my mother is Irish.”
“How much do you understand?”
“Enough to know that I wouldn’t live here for love or money,” he said frankly.
That cracked Chuck up. A moment later the rest of the Gulchers joined him. For some reason Desoto and company didn’t seem as amused.
“So, those men who are looking for you,” he began when we stopped laughing.
“The
y aren’t a problem anymore,” Chuck said. When the agent did the eyebrow thing again Chuck added, “It’s the bears. They’re bad this time of year.”
Epilogue
Chuck sat on the front porch of Butterscotch’s cabin in a comfortable Adirondack chair, staring at the diamond encrusted heart on the gold chain in the black velvet box. The box was water stained and had splotches of mud on it, but the heart and chain still glittered like cold fire. When he’d first selected the piece of jewelry, it seemed like the perfect expression of how he felt about the woman he’d grown to have feelings for during their time together. After the last couple of days spent fighting for their lives, the gift now seemed childish and understated. He slipped the box back into a pocket of his fisherman’s vest when he heard the door to the cabin open behind him.
Butterscotch stepped out onto the porch and handed him a steaming mug of coffee. She then took a seat beside him and together they sipped and enjoyed the sight of a spectacularly beautiful day. Neither of them said a word. Neither of them had to. The day spoke for itself.
The air was fresh and clean after the deluge that had recently passed. The birds were singing, enjoying the fine day by flitting from tree to tree after bugs and newly fallen leaves. The temperature was in the crisp range and Chuck picked up the faint scent of fires burning in town. But mostly he smelled the fresh scent of pine and heard the faint rustle of the breeze whistling through the trees.
Chuck set his mug down on the arm of his chair long enough to scratch around the wound on his injured arm. The gunshot wound had healed nicely, and it only hurt a little, but now that it was healing it itched like a son of a bitch. Chuck moaned with pleasure at the scratching, then lifted his mug again and resumed sipping.
“I suppose now that everything’s resolved, you’ll be headed back to the city,” Butterscotch pointed out, becoming the first to break the silence.
“Ayup,” the Mountie agreed. “My leave is up.”
Again there was silence while the two enjoyed the solitude. That and the simple pleasure of being together without anyone trying to kill them, as far as they knew. In addition, Chuck had his own troubled thoughts to occupy him.
“I wish you wouldn’t,” Butterscotch added.
Strange, but Chuck was thinking the same thing. It was beautiful out here in the Gulch; and besides, there was a lot to be said for the slower pace of life. Then there was the beautiful woman sitting beside him to consider. Yep, Chuck could certainly envision a life spent here as opposed to returning to his solitary life in the city.
“At least for another day or two,” Butterscotch amended.
This last statement froze Chuck’s daydreams of a different future right in their tracks. Had she really just said for a day or two? he pondered. Yes she had. And with that simple statement she had reminded Chuck of the fact that she was an independent woman who would never allow herself to belong to another. Chuck ground his teeth and considered taking a walk.
“Before you go,” Butterscotch interrupted, “are you going to show me that box you’ve been carrying around in your pocket, or are you taking it back with you?”
Chuck had to think for a moment. Would he give it to her or was it coming back to Winnipeg with him? Ultimately, he reached into his pocket, retrieved the box, and handed it to Butterscotch. He scooted to the edge of his seat and pivoted the better to see her open the gift.
Butterscotch paused. Perhaps she was afraid he had just handed her an engagement ring and was waiting for her to open it before dropping to one knee before her. Maybe he should have gotten her an engagement ring. Chuck’s thoughts and feelings at the moment were a crazy mess.
Butterscotch opened the box and looked inside. Her face lit up and she placed her free hand to her mouth to hide a broad smile. She looked to him and he could see her eyes beginning to tear up.
“Oh, Chuck. It’s beautiful,” she said. Then she freed the chain from the box and held the heart up before her eyes. It sparkled obediently. “Will you help me put it on?”
“You bet,” Chuck replied, unable to suppress his own broad smile of delight.
Chuck had a hard time undoing the tiny clasp with his huge fingers. Eventually he got the chain unfastened and slipped it around Butterscotch’s neck. As he reached around her to lock the chain behind her neck, he considered pulling her into his arms. Instead he pulled back to see how the necklace looked on her. It was beautiful. She was beautiful.
“You know, that heart comes with some words I’d like to say to you,” Chuck said tentatively.
“Alright,” Butterscotch acknowledged with equal tension, looking away at the heart that lay between her breasts instead of at him.
During his idle time, mostly while lying awake in bed unable to sleep, the Mountie had practiced the words he meant to say. But now he didn’t know where to begin. Ultimately, he decided that saying anything would be better than remaining silent.
“During our time together, I’ve grown to respect you,” he began awkwardly. “I mean, you display many qualities that I think all women should display. You’re smart, and resourceful, and God knows you’re pretty enough. I mean, you’re real pretty, not just pretty enough.”
Chuck paused to swallow hard and try to organize his thoughts. It didn’t help.
“And then there’s the love making. I really like making love with you. It’s far better than being alone in the city. Not that I’m saying I do things to myself when I’m alone in the city. I mean, I know women there, but not in that way.”
“Chuck, aren’t we a little old to be having this conversation? I mean, we are what we are, right?”
“Dammit Butterscotch, don’t interrupt!” he snapped.
“Don’t you tell me what to do!” she snapped back.
“Do you always have to be so contrary? Can’t you see that I’m having trouble trying to say what I’m trying to say?”
“And what is it you’re trying to say?”
“I love you, that’s what I’m trying to say!”
And just like that it was out. The L-word floated between them as if Chuck had cut a fart during an elegant dinner party. Butterscotch didn’t turn up her nose at it, but she did refuse to meet his eyes. Chuck pushed himself back into his chair and lifted his coffee to his lips. The bitter liquid was tepid already.
The two of them sat on the porch, Butterscotch fiddling with her necklace and Chuck sipping at his lukewarm brew. The air seemed a little chillier and the chirping of the birds had grown annoying.
“When it’s cold at night,” Butterscotch began, “I love lying in bed in your arms. And I enjoy making love with you too. I think you’re smart and resourceful, and Lord knows, when the chips are down, there’s no one else I’d rather have watching my back. I cherish our time together. And when that moron shot you I was terrified that you would die—and I wished like anything that I had been shot instead.”
Chuck took another bitter sip.
“But after a spell, I yearn to be alone. And I don’t think that you are really ready to throw away your job and come live like an outlaw in my tiny cabin. I’m sorry, because I know that isn’t what you want to hear, but that’s the best I can do right now.”
Chuck had heard enough. Maybe everything she said was true, but he didn’t want to hear any more of it. Setting down his coffee mug, he rose and walked down the steps from the porch. Once on solid ground he set his course toward town.
“Chuck!” Butterscotch called.
“What?” Chuck stopped but did not turn.
“I love you too.”
“Hmph.” Chuck commenced walking. After taking several more steps, Max came dashing out of the woods to greet him.
“Come on, Max,” Chuck said, bending to scratch Max behind the ears. “Let’s go to town and get drunk. I hate flying sober.”
“Don’t get my dog drunk. And don’t forget that Thanksgiving is only two weeks away,” she reminded him. “We’re having goose.”
As Chuck and Max walked towar
d the pub, Chuck began to smile.
About the Author
Melanie Jackson is the author of 50 novels. If you enjoyed this story, please visit Melanie’s author web site at www.melaniejackson.com.
eBooks by Melanie Jackson:
The Chloe Boston Mystery Series:
Moving Violation
The Pumpkin Thief
Death in a Turkey Town
Murder on Parade
Cupid’s Revenge
Viva Lost Vegas
Death of a Dumb Bunny
Red, White and a Dog Named Blue
Haunted
The Great Pumpkin Caper
The Butterscotch Jones Mystery Series
Due North
Big Bones
Gone South
Wildside Series
Outsiders
Courier
Still Life
The Book of Dreams Series:
The First Book of Dreams: Metropolis
The Second Book of Dreams: Meridian
The Third Book of Dreams: Destiny
Medicine Trilogy
Bad Medicine
Medicine Man
Knave of Hearts
Club Valhalla
Devil of Bodmin Moor
Devil of the Highlands
Devil in a Red Coat
Halloween
The Curiosity Shoppe (Sequel to A Curious Affair)
Timeless
Nevermore: The Last Divine Book
Table of Contents
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Epilogue
Gone South (A Butterscotch Jones Mystery Book 3) Page 9