Griz

by Raylan Kane

  Table of Contents

  ONE 4

  TWO 6

  THREE 9

  FOUR 12

  FIVE 15

  SIX 18

  SEVEN 20

  EIGHT 24

  NINE 26

  TEN 28

  ELEVEN 31

  TWELVE 33

  THIRTEEN 35

  FOURTEEN 37

  FIFTEEN 40

  SIXTEEN 45

  SEVENTEEN 47

  EIGHTEEN 53

  NINETEEN 55

  TWENTY 59

  TWENTY-ONE 61

  TWENTY-TWO 64

  TWENTY-THREE 66

  TWENTY-FOUR 69

  OTHER BOOKS BY RAYLAN KANE 72

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR 73

  Griz

  by Raylan Kane

  Copyright 2018. All rights reserved.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  For Melissa, for always insisting we carry bear spray,

  ONE

  Hoisting the ten-man tent took Flint Whitstock and his son Brad all of the last two hours of sunlight. Camping back in a remote corner of the backcountry, they would feast on fried steaks and beans cooked over an open fire. They spread out foams for their bedding and filled their canteens from a nearby stream. Earlier they’d shared trail mix from their pockets, and the younger man, just as a bonus, sprinkled in chocolate M&Ms for added flavor. They’d managed to hike in close to Hiller Canyon, a full fifty miles in the bush over four days. The old man felt a blister throb on the back of his foot. His son patched it up with a bandage and ointment.

  “And here I thought I loved these boots,” the old man said with a chuckle.

  His son said, “You’ve just gotta work them in a little more.”

  He held his canteen high and gulped down the clean cool water.

  “We were lucky to find that stream,” his father said. “More like, you were lucky I found that stream.”

  Typical Dad. The young man thought with a smile. “You’re just lucky you even made it out this far old man. At one point back there I thought I was gonna have to carry you.”

  “Nah, I more than held my own. I’m a Marine, remember?”

  “You’d never let me forget.”

  The old man was proud of his son. Only a week away from military intake at Fort Joseph, Missouri. From there he’d go through Basic with the U.S. Marine Corps and start a career he’d wanted from the time he was eight years old. He wanted to be just like Dad.

  “Appreciate you helping me air out this tent this weekend,” Flint said. “She was gettin’ pretty musty up in the attic.”

  “Sure, Dad.”

  Brad knew the real reason his father wanted to hike out for a week of camping. His dad was never the sentimental type, but he had his own way of telegraphing how he really felt. The best memories the two shared were of camping out under the stars. He wanted to recreate the experience, for old time’s sake. It was an opportunity they hadn’t had a lot of in recent years. Mother’s illness and her tragic passing. Hers and her husband’s only son off at college in Maryland. Time proved to be cruel and fleeting, leaving little opportunity over the previous five years for much in the way of father-son bonding. They’d always been close, but life got in the way more often than not. This weekend proved to be the right time to connect. The young man came all the way from Baltimore back home to Branson, Alaska to see his old man a few weeks before shipping off for training and from there God only knows. The minute he’d stepped off the plane in Fairbanks his Dad hugged him in a way he’d never experienced. It felt more like a death-grip. The once large and imposing old man appeared small and wiry. He clung to his son as though it might be the last time he’d ever seen him. It took everything the younger man had not to shed a tear right there on the air-strip.

  The camping trip was the old man’s idea. He owned one tent, a giant army green monstrosity he’d bought second hand twelve years before at the Army Surplus. The thing languished in a trunk in the attic the entire time he’d had it. He’d had no call to use it over that time.

  By the light of a small wind-up electrical lamp they cleared off their plastic dishes into an airtight container and washed their aluminum utensils in the stream. They packed away the food carefully and double-checked the site to ensure they weren’t leaving anything, even a crumb, to chance. They were set up in the thick of bear country, they knew it well. They’d lived in Alaska nearly their whole lives, they knew the deal. Aside from their heavy packs, both men carried rifles with ample ammo and plenty of bear spray.

  The old man sat on a stump and reached into his pack and lifted out a deck of plastic playing cards and a fold-able plastic cribbage board.

  “Play a hand or two of crib before bed?” Flint offered.

  “May need to re-crank that lamp some for that.”

  “No problem.”

  “Yeah, sure,” Brad said. “Just gotta take a leak. I’ll be right back.”

  “Make sure you rinse your hands off after, these are my best playing cards,” the old man joked. “And for God’s sake don’t piss in our water supply.”

  “Relax you old goat.”

  Brad walked about fifty feet from the campsite, leaving the stream behind him. Using his small penlight he found a clearing near a fallen log and peed on a large clump of moss. Sweet relief.

  The wind picked up a little and it whistled quite strongly through the trees above. Brad looked up and noticed the sky was clear. Just in his own small part of the forest he could see a million stars. He realized in that moment just how much he’d missed that Alaskan sky. The wind seemed to grow a bit stronger. He could hear the metal tent stakes rattle back at the site. That’s when he felt the ground move. A mini-earthquake. The forest floor seemed to ripple beneath his boots.

  “Hey Dad,” he called out. “You feel that?”

  “Feel what?”

  The ground shook harder, the vibrations knocked him off-balance. He zipped up and stared straight ahead into pitch black, the source of a faint noise. The wind howled above and then a distinct crunching sound shot from the darkness, growing closer by the second. He couldn’t discern anything from the darkness, but a fifty-foot beast of rippling fur and muscle stood towering over the forest. It’s deafening roar exploded Brad’s eardrums then the giant creature bore down on him, at full speed.

  Flecks of wood flew up as trees around him splintered. The remnants hit Brad in the face and he cowered at the stinging pain. The forest sounded as though it was exploding. Dirt sprayed everywhere. The young man had no time to react. Something massive and unseen was near him. He could sense for a fleeting moment something seemingly as black as the night, large as a mountain. The incredible mass slammed into him.

  Instantly, with unbelievable force the creature knocked Brad off his feet and sent him flying. He could hear Flint’s cry somewhere below and he crashed to the hard ground in a heap. He laid face down in the dirt sucking for air, his mind raced, he tried to gather his thoughts. He pressed his palms to the ground to stand and a crushing weight bore down on top of him, he felt his legs, his pelvis and his ribs crunch apart. Unable to breathe or move, he screamed as piercing bolts of pain ripped through his back. Suddenly, everything from the chest up severed from the rest of Brad’s body, pulled apart by titanic razor teeth. The enormous animal stepped off the lower half of the man’s body and flattened whole trees as it turned and then lumbered away from the campsite.

  The wind calmed significantly. A loose flap on the flattened ten-person tent flicked loosely in the mild breeze, it’s gentle tap against the broken cribbage board made the only sound.

 
; TWO

  Deputy Jen Marsh sat in the sun in an unmarked Tahoe for over an hour. Parked on the edge of town outside Setter’s Service station, she watched a lifeless black Trans-Am shining in the sun sitting like a lump on the shoulder of the highway. The driver of the vehicle was concealed behind dark tinted windows. She knew who he was. All of Branson knew who he was. The biggest low-life degenerate this side of Fairbanks. An ex-con and a dealer, the town’s only dealer. He sat waiting for a delivery from out of town. Jen had worked a confidential informant in town. One of the locals who frequented Branson’s only watering hole. He tipped her off about the drop, and she was going to rid Branson of its key nuisance once and for all.

  Jen sipped her coffee and kept her head low. She rested her hands on the wheel and relaxed her shoulders. She’d been out of the academy and on the job for three years. A far cry from her days singing in a band in Portland while getting her Criminology degree at Portland State. She always knew she wanted to be a cop, to follow in her father’s footsteps, but all those drunken nights sleeping on couches, the crazy after parties and eating cold pizza at 4 A.M. seemed like a million miles away. Her mind drifted for a moment, back to that time, then she caught herself and re-doubled her focus on the black Trans-Am.

  “Come on assholes,” she muttered, “let’s get on with it.”

  Another half hour went by. Jen played with the snap on her holster. She lifted a pad of paper from her clipboard beside her and attempted a solo game of Tic-Tac-Toe. After playing herself into a tie three times in a row she gave up. If only her dad could see her now, the thought made her chuckle.

  The CB radio crackled to life. “Deputy Marsh,” a reedy voice came through. Jen recognized it belonged to Sheriff Lake.

  “Go ahead, Sheriff.”

  “What’s on the go? You caught this guy yet or what?”

  Jen hated the way the Sheriff used the radio. She was always worried about people in town with scanners. Worried that Tom was too forthcoming with information better kept private or not said at all. Her radio usage was always sparse and non-forthcoming.

  “Not yet. Soon.”

  “Good,” Tom said. “Keep me informed. I’ll say it again, you didn’t have to give up your day off to catch this asshole, you realize.”

  “Well aware, Sheriff.” Jen rolled her eyes.

  “Alrighty, keep at it,” he said.

  “10-4.”

  No sooner had she put the receiver back on the hook when a green Civic with a loud exhaust roared up on the black Trans-Am.

  “Bingo,” she whispered. She watched as the green Civic pulled within a foot of the Trans-Am, driver’s window to driver’s window. The tinted window on the black car rolled down, a hand flashed out, handed something small to the driver of the Civic. Jen knew it was the money. Then a small white packet was passed from the Civic to the Trans-Am.

  “Got you now, asshole,” she said. She hit the lights and siren and stomped the gas. The driver of the Trans-Am impressively wheeled his car in a tight three-quarter turn, jumped on the gas and was gone in a streak. Jen could barely believe her eyes. But the driver of the Civic, clearly panicked, hesitated then reversed in a Y-turn and took off straight back down the highway out of town from whence they came. Jen pounced on the opportunity, let the Trans-Am go and focused squarely on chasing down the easier prey, the green Civic. The little car kicked up dust as it peeled from the shoulder and screeched down the roadway.

  Jen pressed the gas and made up ground. Impressively calm, she pulled the receiver close.

  “Deputy Sivers, Marsh here, keep an eye out for a black Trans-Am, it’s you know who, headed back for town likely loaded with product, pick him up if you see him. I’m in pursuit of the other party. Out past Setter’s.”

  Jen was only a few car lengths behind the Civic. Sivers voice came through the radio.

  “10-4 Marsh, I’ll keep an eye out. You need a hand out there?”

  “Negative. I’m good.”

  10 miles out of town, the driver of the Civic slowed and pulled off to the shoulder.

  Jen grabbed the radio. “Deputy Marsh here, I’ve got a green Civic stopped, about 10 miles out.”

  The driver of the car burst from the driver door. A large man with a thick black beard. He walked straight for Jen’s Tahoe. She jumped from the driver’s seat and unholstered her pistol.

  “Stop right there!”

  The man hesitated then burst toward her in a full-out sprint.

  Jen’s heart dropped. She holstered the gun and grabbed her baton. The man lunged at her with a fist. She struck him with the baton on the inside of his knee. He bellowed and reached for his leg and she struck him again on the shoulder. He doubled over and she kicked him off-balance onto his backside.

  “Get on the ground!” She commanded. “Roll over!”

  She shoved the big man with her foot and he lumbered over on his side. She flung the cuffs from her belt and snapped the first one on his left wrist.

  “Give me your other hand!”

  The man refused. She wrenched the cuff on his left wrist and the man wailed in pain.

  “Give me your other hand! Do it!”

  The man acquiesced and put his other hand behind him. She snapped the other cuff in place. The man sat on the pavement on his butt heaving in air, clearly panicked.

  “What the hell are you doing charging at a cop?”

  “I don’t know. I panicked.”

  “You must be out of your damned mind,” Jen said.

  “Yeah. I guess.”

  “You guess? You’re liable to get shot!”

  “Sorry,” the man whimpered.

  “Stand up,” she said. She collected herself and caught her breath. Her adrenaline died down enough that she was no longer shaking and she walked the man to the rear passenger side door of her truck. She shoved the man inside. “Have a seat,” she said.

  With the man locked inside and nowhere to go, she walked over to his vehicle. His driver’s door was wide open and she could hear the faint bass of some Euro techno crap playing on his sound system. There on the passenger seat she could see a crumpled envelope. On the bench seat in the back she saw an open duffel bag almost full of white packets.

  She heard a loud engine rev behind her and a marked F250 parked a short distance away. Deputy Sivers jumped out.

  “Any luck on the Trans-Am?” Jen asked.

  “That’s Corey Nado, right?”

  Jen nodded. “The one and only.”

  “Nope, nada,” Sivers said. “What’cha got going on here?”

  “Drug bust,” Jen said. “The asshole pulled off, got out on foot and charged at me. You believe that?”

  “You put a bullet in his ass?”

  “He’s lucky I didn’t. He’s cooling his jets in the back.”

  “You want me to take him?” Sivers asked. “It is your day off after all.”

  “Sure. I appreciate it. First, take a look at the haul here.” She pointed to the duffel bag in the back of the Civic.

  “Nice one,” Sivers said. “Dollars to donuts he’s got warrants too. This oughta put him away for a while.”

  “Think so.”

  Sivers walked over to the Tahoe and grabbed the guy from the back then walked him over and put him in his vehicle. Sivers gave her a wave as he drove off back toward town. Jen let out a long sigh as she closed the Civic’s door. She crawled back into the truck and settled into the driver’s seat and tried to relax as she waited for Tollefson’s Towing to come and collect her prize.

  THREE

  Jen arrived at the office feeling well-rested. Her uniform was nicely pressed. The regular guy was back at the town’s only dry cleaners, he always got the creases right. The strong hum of the fluorescent lights in the back hallway where she’d walked in gave way to the soft tones of Dorothy’s gentle phone manner as Jen made her way toward the main area behind the front counter, the back of room is where the desks were situated. Dorothy noticed Jen from the corner of her eye and gave her a
smile. Jen helped herself to a donut from Crannock’s Bakery and walked toward the back wall where her desk sat.

  She plunked down in her creaky chair and stared in dismay at the scattered files all over her desk. We need to hire more people. The workload for the deputies and for Sheriff Lake himself was high given that besides Dorothy there were only the five of them. Each of the four deputies only got one day off every week. The Sheriff would sweeten the pot a little though by giving them four days off in a row every other month.

  Jen’s desk was joined at the front edge by Deputy Sivers’s desk. Sivers was on night rotation, Jen was starting days. The other deputy on days, Deputy Scott Wood, hadn’t come in yet, but Jen was usually early. Day shift started at 8AM, but Jen liked to come into the office about 730 and use the quiet time to push through her file work. The Sheriff was the real early bird of the bunch though. He was up at 5 most days, but he had a regular schedule. He worked nights only on rare occasions when it was called for, such as a major investigation. He’d wander into the office about 630AM and putter around and let Dorothy in at 7. He was usually first out of the office in the afternoon as well. He liked to head home about 3 or 330 and work on whatever construction project he had on the go on his acreage.

  Jen opened the file for the guy she’d picked up just the day before out on the highway near Setters. He had a string of drug charges as long as her arm, as expected. She figured it was time to talk to the guy in his cell, see if she could pick up some info on local dirtbag Corey Nado. Anything she could use to finally put that menace behind bars. She finished her donut, wiped crumbs from around her lips with a napkin and grabbed a cell-block key from a hook on the wall. She opened the thick steel door that led from the bullpen where her desk was that led to the concrete room where there were three jail cells aligned in a row. She noted the first cell on her right was occupied, but not by her guy, it was Roy Underwood, again. Roy was 60 years old but looked about 90. He drank to excess seemingly everyday and invariably found his way into the lockup each time after passing out somewhere in public. Tom usually found him passed out in the early morning, usually on his way into work. He’d pick him up and lodge him in cells until he’d sobered up. Then in the afternoon they’d kick him loose and he’d usually go right back to hitting the bottle. Roy was a nice man, a lonely man and not a mean drunk by any stretch, so to lodge him in cells wasn’t exactly arduous and sadly had become customary for all the deputies on staff.