Goats, Boats, and Killer Cutthroats

by David F. Berens

  Goats, Boats & Killer Cutthroats

  David Berens

  GOATS, BOATS & KILLER CUTTHROATS

  A Jack And Allison Thriller

  By: David F. Berens

  All Rights Reserved © 2018 by David F. Berens

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher.

  Contact the Author at:

  http://www.DavidFBerens.com

  Goats, Boats & Killer Cutthroats: A Jack And Alison Thriller is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  For lovers of adventure.

  May you find all you seek in life and love.

  Contents

  Introduction

  1. Poof. We’re In Montana

  2. Lincoln Logs

  3. A View To A Kill

  4. Tire Tracks And Footprints

  5. Trophy Goats

  6. A Whole New Level

  7. No Room At The Inn

  8. Run, Run, Away

  9. Boats ‘n’ Goats

  10. Papers Please

  11. Charging Marmots

  12. Ptarmigan Tunnel

  13. Slip Slidin’ Away

  14. Throttle Back

  15. Prince Of Wales

  16. A Great Epitath

  Afterword

  I. Excerpt from Islands, Bylines & the Goddess of Fire

  1. The Real Ironman

  2. Dark Roast

  Also by David Berens

  Introduction

  Jack & Alison are back! This time, we travel with them to Glacier National Park where they stumble upon some nefarious goings-on. It’s a beautiful location to play around and in and provides a fantastic backdrop for Alison’s next article…but there’s always trouble with these two.

  Unfortunately, Jack is bound and determined to get into the whole mess before the local authorities get there.

  I’ve enjoyed getting to know these two new characters and watching as they develop a deeper relationship. I hope you like them as much as I do and will follow them wherever they may lead!

  If you’d like to sign up to my reader group, I’ll be sure to keep you posted on the upcoming releases.

  Click Here to sign up.

  -David Berens

  1

  Poof. We’re In Montana

  They say that success is relative. I just paid my rent and bought groceries in the same week. For me, that’s pretty successful.

  When I was in college, I thought I would be able to get a job as a columnist for a newspaper and earn a decent living. After I graduated, I found out that newspapers were laying off, not hiring, and making a living was very difficult with a degree in journalism.

  My name is Alison Meyers. I’ve been out of school for two years now, and I work for a local weekly newspaper in Charlotte, North Carolina. I report on road closings, new companies coming to town, community events—and, of course, diners and such. It brings in a regular paycheck, albeit a minuscule one.

  I supplement that with freelance work writing magazine columns—mostly food and travel. Today, I got an email asking if I was interested in contributing to an article about one of the lodges in Glacier National Park in Montana. You would’ve thought Harvard had mailed me an acceptance letter from the gymnastic gyrations I performed in the middle of my kitchen.

  It’s very rare to get an invitation for an article like this. Usually, the writer comes up with an idea for an article and pitches that to multiple magazines hoping that one of them will bite. It’s a lot like fishing in a sea of a billion fish, with a billion other fishing lines around you.

  I did something a little different this time. I emailed a portfolio of my work to the editors of all the food and travel magazines I could find and asked them to consider me for any specific articles they wanted written. Like hitting the lottery, one of my emails landed at the right place at the right time and prompted this response. Too bad it’s in Montana. I was hoping for something closer to home.

  I called Jack to tell him about it. You know, Jack, the photographer I met a couple months ago. In the short time we’ve known each other, we’ve been through an awful lot together and gotten to know each other extremely well. (Read as we’ve kissed a few times and flirted more times than that.) Since he does only freelance work with no regular paycheck at all, and he’s been doing okay at that, he’s been helping me build up my freelance work.

  “Hey, babe!” came through my phone after the first ring. “What’s up?”

  I crinkled my nose at that and was glad he couldn’t see me blush. Babe. He called me babe.

  “Remember all those packets I sent out? I got an email back from one of them.”

  “Awesome. I knew you would! What’s it say?”

  “They want me to do an article on a lodge in Glacier National Park. They’re getting different writers to write about each of the different lodges so they’ll have different viewpoints.”

  “Wow! That’s great!”

  “No, not great,” I said. “It’s in Montana!”

  A couple of seconds of silence on his end.

  “And …”

  “And we’re in North Carolina …?”

  “So, we get a couple plane tickets, and POOF, we’re in Montana!”

  I blurted out a laugh.

  “Whoa, wait a minute. Two plane tickets? This is not even a guaranteed job yet, and I don’t know that I can get enough money from it to pay for even one plane ticket, let alone two.”

  “Sure you can. You’ve done a lot of travel and destination articles before, right?

  “Well, I wouldn’t call it a lot. Maybe three or four.”

  “And they read the ones you sent them, and they liked them so much they called you, right?”

  “Yeah, but—”

  “Take the job! It’s yours. But tell them that you want to cover all the lodges, not just one. That’s the only way. Tell them it will save them money on expenses because they’re only paying for one trip to Montana instead of three or four or however many lodges they have there.”

  “There’s four.”

  “See, you’ve already done your homework. You know the lay of the land.”

  “Aaugh!” I covered the phone and yelled out to nobody in particular.

  Jack is such an optimist, and I love him for that, but sometimes I think he’s missing a dose of reality.

  “First off, no travel writer charges expenses for a team. We’re low-budget operators. And second, it’s just not that easy. I don’t know their word count or their rates, probably pennies. It may not even pay enough to cover the expenses.”

  “They’ll pay the expenses. They can’t legitimately expect anyone to fly all the way to Montana and pay for that out of a word rate. I’ll take care of it.”

  “You’ll what? Who are you that they care about?”

  “I’m your professional photographer partner. Nobody’s going to buy a premium-priced magazine about Montana without it being full of full-page high-definition pictures of wildlife and lodge type stuff.”

  “What do you know about wildlife and lodge photography?”

  “I’m a photographer. I take pictures for a living. I’ll take pictures of the wildlife.”

  “And what if the wildlife doesn’t want to pose for you?”

  “Now you’re just being silly. Wildlife poses for everybody. How else do you
think that photographers get all those great pictures?”

  Somehow, I let him talk me into forwarding him the email so he would have the editor’s contact information. I wasn’t at all convinced that that was a good idea, but I knew that I couldn’t take this assignment, anyway. Flying to Montana would be crazy expensive and would be a long trip to cover all the lodges in this particular area. All for what was likely only a couple hundred dollars.

  I had done that sort of thing before when I felt that I couldn’t afford to turn down any opportunity. I eventually learned that sometimes you have to turn the wrong ones down and keep looking for the right one. As much as that hurts when I need every dollar I can get, if an assignment pays two hundred dollars, but is going to cost me three hundred in expenses, that’s an assignment that I can’t afford to take. It’s a no-brainer.

  Anyway, that was at the beginning of the week. Jack was coming over today for lunch. I’ve been cooking him dinner once or twice a week. I like to cook, and he’s fun company. He makes me laugh, except when he’s trying out one of his new magic tricks on me, or when he’s learned another really bad joke. Then he usually just makes me groan.

  He has to take pictures for a wedding tonight, so I told him to come over for lunch instead. I’m making chicken paninis. Grilled chicken breasts pounded flat, with caramelized onions, provolone, and fresh aioli, all on pizza dough bread and grilled in butter. Mm-mmm. To die for.

  Jack showed up with a roll of duct tape in his hand. I decided to try my hand at the playful banter he was so good at.

  “Hmm, what do you have in mind for that?” I asked him with a sly grin.

  “I like the way you think,” he replied with a smile of his own, “and I actually have something in mind very much like you’re implying.”

  “Ooh, I can’t wait. But I’m in the middle of my paninis.”

  “I’d like to get into the middle of your paninis!”

  “Ha!” I could feel my face flush and I smacked him playfully on the shoulder. “I’m going to use that tape on your mouth.”

  “Actually, I want you to wrap it around my wrists.” He held up the tape. “Here.”

  “Oh, Jack. I need to get back to my paninis. I don’t want them to burn.”

  “This is quick. One minute tops.”

  “Then follow me into the kitchen. That’s too long.”

  Jack and his roll of tape followed me. He leaned over the stove and inhaled deeply.

  “Smells amazing. What is it?”

  “I’m making chicken paninis, but what you smell is caramelized onions. The rest of the ingredients will follow.”

  “I hope you’re writing this down,” he said, “because I don’t know what any of that means, but right now I’d follow you anywhere.”

  Jack has been bugging me ever since we met to write a how-to-cook book, and I have to admit that he has me thinking about it. He’s constantly prodding me to make notes every time I tell him something about cooking—especially anything that my grandma taught me—and I actually have been doing that, but don’t tell him. That can be our little secret—you and me.

  I put the chicken on and said, “Okay, you have one minute.”

  He handed me the roll of duct tape and said, “Wrap this around my wrists.”

  I took the tape, and he held his wrists together out in front for me. I picked at the end of the roll, being careful not to chip my nail polish, and got it started. I wrapped it around his wrists and then wrapped it around again a second time. I tore off the roll with a pair of scissors and said, “Okay, now what?”

  “I saw this on TV and thought it would be a good skill for us to have, considering we’ve already gotten kidnapped once.”

  A shudder ran through me as I suppressed the horrible memory of Ricky and his gemstone fencing buddies. We had put all of that behind us months ago, but it was still tough to think about.

  “So you can get out of that?” I asked and crossed my arms.

  “We’ll find out. It worked for the guy on TV.”

  Jack brought his hands up to his face and suddenly brought them down, throwing his elbows out. Snap! The duct tape broke open in a straight line right through both layers.

  “Wow!” I said. “That’s impressive. How’d you do that?”

  “Duct tape is really strong, but if you jerk it hard along one edge, it’ll snap right in two. When you throw out your elbows, it pulls on the bottom edge of the tape. It’s just like when you tear it.” He picked up the roll and easily tore off a short piece. “Here, you try it now.”

  “Oh, no. Absolutely not,” I said. “I have to flip the chicken.”

  “You really need to try this just once so you’ll know how to do it if you ever get tied up with duct tape.”

  “I already have been tied up with duct tape!” I yelled, knocking the roll out of his hands and sending it somewhere under the table. “I spent an entire night in that filthy house taped to a kitchen chair!”

  “If you mean Ricky, he tied us up with parachute cord.”

  “Not when he came back the second time! You used up all his cord, so he used duct tape on me.”

  My emotion must have looked raw on my face because he softened immediately. He stretched his arms out to pull me closer.

  “Oh, Alison, I’m so sorry. Didn’t mean to bring all that back up again.”

  I turned away from him, took a couple of deep breaths, and regained my composure. A few months ago—it was actually when I first met Jack—he and I got kidnapped and tied up. We escaped, and later I got recaptured. I never told Jack all the details, and he never asked. I think he feels a little guilty about the whole incident, and so did I at the time, so we’ve just never discussed it.

  The sound of my chicken searing brought me out of the memory and I rushed to the stove to flip it over.

  “Sit down,” I said. These will be ready in a couple minutes.”

  He sat down at the table without saying another word. I’m not used to him not talking, and I realized how my outburst must have affected him.

  “Hey,” I said. “Forget about that. It happened; it’s over. I’m making some delicious sandwiches now. Let’s enjoy them.”

  I assembled the paninis and put them back in the pan to grill. Two minutes later, Jack took his first bite. His face lit up and a trickle of juice ran down on his chin. I reached up with my napkin and wiped it away from his amazing smile.

  “Wow! This is incredible. This has to go in your book.”

  “This might be a little too much for a how-to-cook book,” I said. “And besides, I didn’t learn this from Grandma. I think I saw it on TV.”

  Jack wolfed down his panini in record time.

  “Absolutely amazing,” he said. Aioli was running down both of his arms. He was licking his fingers, and I noticed that his eyes were shut now.

  “Just imagine how good it would be if you spread out the experience over a longer time.”

  “I think of smelling your cooking as foreplay and eating your cooking as the orgasm. There are some things that you just can’t control how fast they happen.”

  I was thankful again that his eyes were closed because I’m sure I was bright red. Wow! I didn’t see that coming. I coughed a little and maybe even giggled.

  “What?”Jack asked, opening his eyes.

  I realized I was staring at his eyes with what must look like the face of a hungry wolf. I took a big bite of my sandwich to avoid having to respond. His eyebrow arched up and he stifled another grin.

  “I’ve been talking with that editor for the Glacier National Park article,” he said, changing the subject. “No one else he’s contacted has committed yet. Seems that most of them have the same concerns that you did—big expenses, lots of travel time, and too low a paycheck to make it worthwhile.”

  “See,” I said, taking another bite of panini.

  “Fortunately, I offered him an alternative. And he bought it.”

  “What exactly did he buy?” I asked with a small amount of dread
.

  “You get to do the entire article—all four lodges! I do all the photography. He’ll pay you their standard word rate, plus he’ll cover both of our expenses.”

  Twice in the same sandwich, I was dumbstruck. “I don’t believe it,” I said. What’s the word rate?”

  “I don’t remember. It will all be in the contract. He said he’d email it to you Monday.”

  “You’re serious, aren’t you?”

  “Have you ever known me to not be serious?”

  “Do you really want me to answer that?”

  I took his empty plate and walked it to the sink. My heart was pounding with excitement. I wasn’t sure how he had done it, but he had gotten a contract that might actually make this assignment work.

  Jack clutched his heart and slid down in his chair. “You wound me.”

  2

  Lincoln Logs

  Two weeks later, we were on a plane to Salt Lake City. I had a window seat, and Jack was beside me sitting in the middle. My knees bounced up and down as I chugged the miniature can of Coke and stole his unopened bag of peanuts. He wouldn’t care. He was asleep like most of the other passengers at this god-awful hour of the morning. But I was too jacked up about this assignment. The contract had been more than generous and this was my first time traveling east of the Mississippi River.

  I had brought along a magazine and that kept me occupied for a while, but with the hum of the plane engines and the vibration, the next thing I knew, a bell was ringing and the flight attendant was telling everybody to raise our seat backs for landing. We only had forty minutes for our layover in Salt Lake City, so I wouldn’t even have time to fix my hair. I knew it was silly to worry about something like that around Jack, but I still wanted to look my best.