“Can you do anything about it?” I asked, making a mental note to put away the brandy before I got equally chatty.
“Probably, but not immediately. And maybe, for the time being, I am best where I am. Maybe I can deflect some of the attention away from here.” This was not the first time he had mentioned this and I wondered how much scrutiny we were under and why. And, again, who the hell was the man in Dark Glasses? If I was right, he was some kind of stone cold killer, sanctioned to act by the government.
“Well, confusion to the enemy,” I said and clicked my mug against his and Chuck smiled briefly. I liked it. He’d been wearing a serious expression for hours now.
“It would help if they could find whatever the hell they are looking for on that plane in the lake.”
“They aren’t looking for the jewelry and money?” I asked, momentarily distracted from his rare smile.
“No. There was something else on the plane. Something that the higher-ups want badly.” I was surprised at his candor.
It clicked at once. The black box in Big John’s safe. I was certain that this was what he was talking about, the locked box we hadn’t tried to get into yet. I kept my face still.
“What kind of something? Biological weapons? Nuclear bombs?”
“No— at least…. No. The army would be involved then. The hazardous clean-up crew too. No, it is probably some super secret spy thing—— embarrassing information about someone they don’t want embarrassed. Or maybe it is some kind of key to serious money.”
“Serious money?”
“Obscenely serious money. Not the sacks and trinkets the Russian had. Nothing else would interest them. It has to be keeping a secret and— or— something about off the books funding of a sleazy operation. If it isn’t enough to start a war or topple a government, they wouldn’t bother.”
I took a large swallow of coffee. Part of me wanted to tell Chuck about the box. The rest of me, who knew that I didn’t make sound decisions while drinking, decided that I needed a period of quiet reflection before divulging anything.
“Your world is scary. All I worry about are dead bodies and bears and maybe a Sasquatch or two,” I said lightly and somewhat untruthfully. Whenever Chuck was near, thoughts of my life that predated McIntyre’s Gulch were always on my mind.
“Yes. And my world is also turning out to be treacherous in ways I never expected— and tonight I am feeling put upon.”
“How so?” I asked, hoping he wasn’t mad at me for some reason. I didn’t think he was. He probably meant the man in dark glasses— who maybe had been sent to spy on him? Who had maybe killed an innocent anthropologist because he was carrying a backpack that might have held a much desired black box?
Chuck shrugged and I thought that he might let it go, but again he reached inside and came up with something unexpected.
“My parents decide how I would live the front end of my life. Old age will get the end of it. And my job is gobbling up the middle. I used to not mind because it was all I knew, but now I want something else. Something just for me and the job be damned.” His gaze was dark when he turned it on me.
“We can’t do anything about the past and the time we’ve lost,” I said, sounding a little breathless. “But we can decide about the future.” The near future. Sort of. In a limited way.
“And have you decided anything?” he asked, still looking into my eyes.
“Yes,” I said and then kissed him.
Max, who is very tactful, moved away.
Chapter 6
I opened my eyes the next morning, noting Chuck’s arm around my waist and waiting for the penitence of my recklessness to begin.
I waited quite a while but nothing happened. Then Chuck stirred, Max scratched politely at the door and I decided to make coffee and French toast since The Wings had flown in some sourdough bread and I had honey.
The black box in Big John’s safe was on my mind as I flipped the eggy bread, but I couldn’t decide what to do about it. It wasn’t just my secret to reveal. The whole town was involved.
And maybe the Russians, though none of the men had ever suggested that there was anything of interest on the plane outside of the cash and jewels. It must have been something only their psychotic leader had known about. If it was something horrible, did we want Dark Glasses to have it? I really needed to talk to Big John, The Flowers and Sasha before saying anything to Chuck.
* * *
“Where do you live?” Butterscotch asked Chuck as she set a plate of French toast on the table. She was calm and efficient as always. Apparently she didn’t regret the night before. Which was wonderful since he didn’t regret it one bit either.
“In Winnipeg.” He stabbed a piece of toast and reached for the honey pot.
“No, I mean, in an apartment? A house? Do you have a garden and a barbecue and— um— grass?”
“Oh. I live in an apartment. I should buy a house eventually but I have never been a fan of all the mowing and painting. Apartment life is easier.” He paused, thinking of the stern building where he worked and the characterless place where he lived. That led to a brief thought of the unpleasant Brian O’Shay who had nearly gotten a lot of people killed by his greed, but who was left in place by the higher-ups for some reason, some political sleight of hand that was probably very expedient but a long way from noble, legal or good. Could he be blamed for sometimes questioning his reasons for remaining in his job when the people around him were, at the least, morally uninflected? And at their worst, well, a lot worse than morally neutral? He had told Butterscotch some of what he was thinking last night, but not the worst of it since he didn’t want to frighten her. There was no point when there was nothing anyone in The Gulch could do.
Chuck looked around as he ate and was pleased. The cabin was so rugged that it had bypassed the rustic, back-to-nature fashion trend in about 1930. He liked it anyway. It was authentic but unfashionable, just the way Butterscotch was. Which was a strange thing to think, when he knew that Butterscotch had something dark in her past that she might not share with him, or anyone.
And that meant he was really exploring the outer limits of romantic relationships which he had always assumed should be built on complete honesty as well as trust. What would his father say about this? Or his mom, if she were still alive to comment? He thought that they would like Butterscotch and admire her fortitude, though of course they would have reservations since he was thinking of leaving his career because of her.
Well, and because of other things. Mostly other things.
What would he miss if he left that life behind to live some place like this? Not the odd John Doe left in the alley or dumpster, not his now wary colleagues who barely said hello if they passed him in the hall or cafeteria. But could he actually abandon professional competence, that most desired post-industrial trait that made people so useful to the government, and his father so proud? Could he trade that stability for the free-thinking inventiveness needed to survive in McIntyre’s Gulch?
Maybe. He liked to think that he wasn’t so hidebound that he couldn’t learn to trust his creative instincts, buried though they were under years of rules and regulations.
It wasn’t that he had a lot of possessions keeping him in Winnipeg. Nor relationships either. He and his father weren’t that close. He could pack his clothes and his Wii and be gone in a day, and he and Butterscotch could chop firewood and hunt caribou or whatever people did up here.
But would that be enough? In the long term, would he be happy without his job?
“It would be nice if I liked the place more. Or it liked me,” he added, finally aware of the silence after her question about his home. He liked that she didn’t need to fill every moment with talk and was willing to let him think things through. “Maybe I need to decorate. It feels like a stranger still lives there.”
Butterscotch smiled at his answer, and he thought that her simple cabin felt more like a home than anywhere he had lived since going off to University.
<
br /> “You’re thinking deeper thoughts though,” she said. “I know the signs.”
“I’m wondering about stopping by the lake and returning the skulker’s sunglasses,” Chuck said, not ready to talk about the other stuff, but feeling the need to act.
Butterscotch stared and then shook her head at him.
“You’ve heard the one about sleeping dogs, right?”
“I’m just being neighborly. Helping out a colleague.”
She sighed.
“If you’re feeling bold I had better come with you, keep you from poking sticks in the wasp nest.”
“And if I said that was needlessly foolish?”
“Are you calling me a fool? Then I would say it takes one to know one.”
“Okay then. Get dressed and we’ll be foolish together.”
* * *
The morning was still cool as we walked down to the lake. If the divers hadn’t been there, it might be a nice day to go swimming. Max might go swimming anyway, or at least wading. He liked chasing floating logs.
I glanced at Chuck from the corner of my eye as we walked side by side, close but not holding hands. It was too soon to know if this relationship had any forward momentum. Or if it was just maybe a three night stand. Three nights, that might be enough. Really, I hadn’t much practice with these things. All I could think was that we were not yet exactly a couple. And we probably couldn’t be. Not a forever and ever kind.
Of course, I never understood my parents as a twosome, so what did I know? Maybe Dad changed after Mom died. Or, more likely, he was able to repress his hideous personality long enough to trap my mother into marriage, or pregnancy. I have a theory— a fantasy really—— that they were never legally married and that he isn’t my real father.
In any event, I wasn’t repeating my mother’s mistakes. As personalities went, Chuck couldn’t be further removed from my selfish, venal and casually cruel father.
That didn’t mean I wasn’t making all new mistakes, of course, and though I had built up a thick shell around my old fears, a few things could still slip inside. I could feel misgiving scratching at the door, looking for a way in. After all, what was a fundamentally honest man doing with a dishonest woman?
Though I was doing my best to be supportive of Chuck’s decision, the whole notion of confronting the skulker wasn’t really catching fire with me, and I was even less thrilled when I saw two mosquito-bitten reporters heading toward the lake on a parallel trail. Another time I might have felt sorry for the guys who were slathering on Calamine like suntan lotion, but now I was just dismayed that Wendell hadn’t kept them away longer. Disaster was stalking us on two fronts.
If they didn’t know already, they would soon hear about the anthropologist’s death. And then they would want to rush back to the city and report a Sasquatch killing, which was sexier than a bear attack. That was the kind of paper they worked for— thank God, or we really would have the press down on us.
But bear or Sasquatch, I suppose it was better than my worst fear, which was that the skulker was really some kind of assassin, a counterpart for the Russian psycho who’d blown up his plane. Stories of Sasquatch wouldn’t attract real reporters, but a government conspiracy? Every investigative journalist on the continent would descend on us. That thought made me want to panic, which was something to avoid at all costs. Panic doesn’t reason, doesn’t pause for advice, doesn’t look both ways before crossing the street. Panic makes people do stupid things and I had the feeling that now would be a very bad time to be stupid. We were standing at the edge of precipice.
“You look grim again,” Chuck said.
“Do you believe in intuition?”
“Yes.” Again with the unexpected answer. “Want to know what I’m intuiting?”
“Very much.”
“Your skulker isn’t here.”
“We should be so lucky.”
Chuck stared at me. I guess I sounded unusually negative, but the two trails were converging and the reporters were about thirty feet in front of us. I jerked my chin at them.
“Those are the press guys. Wendell was supposed to keep them out of town for a few days, but they’re back early. I bet they want to talk to the skulker too. The odds of him being here have gone up. It’s some kind of Murphy’s Law thing.”
“Hm. Unfortunate that they’re here. But it’s not catastrophic.”
“You think not?” I asked politely.
“The death of their friend was unlucky, but they will have to leave town to report on it.”
“They will?”
“Yes, because I have the strong suspicion that your phone system is down again and sunspots are interfering with the long range radios.”
“Hm.” He was right. I should have thought of that. Big John would have that matter well in hand. It might be that Wings was in town, too, and willing to fly them out immediately.
“And as long as they don’t know that divers are doing anything beyond looking for a body after a plane crash, who cares what they report? No one will come rushing up for the thrill of getting eaten by a bear, or watching divers not find a body. If anything, it will keep people away.”
I exhaled, beginning to feel better. The divers wouldn’t blab their business any more than we would.
“You’re right. And you’re sure Dark Glasses isn’t here?”
“Oh yes.” Now it was Chuck who looked grim. “And that is both a good and a bad thing. I just hope they don’t blame me.”
I didn’t ask him to explain that. Not right away. I could see the divers on the shore of the lake, huddled together as they talked but not getting ready to dive. They looked unhappy and I could guess why. Dark Glasses must have been someone important.
“If he’s not here, where is he?” But I knew the answer.
“Somewhere in the forest. Dead probably. I guess we’ll be organizing a search today since he’s been missed.”
“Damn. The bear problem is really getting out of hand.” I tried for light but it fell flat.
“I just pray it was a bear and not Old Thunder. Or anyone else from around here,” Chuck added conscientiously as he looked along the shore and saw Sasha, the Butcher of Minsk, who was sitting on a rock and sharpening an outrageously long knife.
“Oh hell.” But Chuck had a point. If anyone had a motive and the ability to get rid of a government spy, it was the Russian.
“If Big John hasn’t done it yet, someone needs to go fetch The Bones. We need some death certificates and a quick cremation. It would be great if the second killing looked very animal-like. Or, at least if no bullets were involved.” Chuck spoke absently.
“Fiddling Thomas left the day you arrived. They should be back today.” I added truthfully, “Frankly, I’d like it best if no body was ever found.”
Chuck shook his head.
“Loose ends keep people interested. No, we need a corpse full of claw marks and pockets stuffed full of candy bars. It’s like I said before, we need a story that won’t tax anyone’s brain. City dweller wanders into outback with candy and attracts bears.”
“Chuck, I always kind of took you for a wide-eyed optimist, but that is both pessimistic and devious.”
“Police don’t do optimistic. Not forever.” I didn’t think he would have sounded so bitter about this if his disillusionment hadn’t been recent.
And with that we reached the shore and Chuck and I joined the divers. I noticed their diving suits resting against a fallen log. They looked strange. Later I would learn that was because they were wearing re-breathers which left no bubble trails and wouldn’t disturb the silt at the bottom of the lake. They also had built-in depth finders like they have on fishing boats. These were very high tech.
Chuck introduced himself to them and they reluctantly told us that the skulker— Smith by name— was missing. We shook our heads and told them about the tragic bear attack on the anthropologist and I suggested, with my sweetest and most worried expression, that they needed to post someone as
a lookout at night, because their tents were outside of town and the bears were brazen this time of year. Perhaps they should even come into town. We would be happy to share our homes with them.
They’d seen our homes and clearly preferred their comfy high tech tents. The whole bear attack thing was scaring them though, so I was satisfied that they wouldn’t be wandering off on their own.
The reporters were taking this all in, hovering just outside our little circle. They expressed no surprise at the anthropologist’s death, so I guess they had already heard the news. I wondered if they had been tactless enough to sneak over to The Bones’ freezer and take pictures of the body.
“You must not go into the woods without a guide and guns,” I said as a last reminder when they were making noise about trying to find Dark Glasses themselves. “We will help organize search parties immediately, but you must not go off without a guide who knows bear sign.” Who would lead them away from anything useful or interesting.
So, I knew how Chuck and I would be spending the day. I can’t honestly say that I was looking forward to it, however much I wanted to get rid of the outsiders camping on our lake.
And I hoped that when we found the body it did have claw-marks. If not, I suspected that Chuck and I would go with my plan and we would spend the rest of the day looking for a deep ravine to drop it in.
Later I would ask myself who or what had killed both the anthropologist and the skulker, but it could wait. I guess we would have some kind of answer if we found the backpack full of bones.
And another answer if the backpack really was gone. It was difficult, but I didn’t turn to look back at Sasha who was still calmly stropping his blade that glittered evilly in the sun.
It also made me a little angry that Chuck and I— and the entire town— were still tied to the dead Grigori, even though his body was in crispy bits at the bottom of the lake or maybe inside some fishes’ bellies. Of course, the real kicker, the sixty-four dollar question, was how the hell did we cut these strings and get the government out of our lives? Because if we didn’t do something there would be another ‘Smith’ along eventually and we couldn’t count on all of them getting killed by ‘bears’.
Big Bones (A Butterscotch Jones Mystery Book 2) Page 4