“I don’t like the looks of those guys,” Astrid says, as the cyclists split to pass them on either side.
“Me neither, babe. I’m glad we left when we did. I think I’ll hold off on stoppin’ to call the cops until we’re back at the highway.”
“I’ll do it,” Astrid says, and pulls out her phone.
♦ ♦ ♦
“AND I’M SURE she was looking at the monitors,” Clint tells Bearon, “all of them, including the Basement. Is there a key on the computer you can hit to make them all go dark? I figure that’s what she did when I knocked.”
“I think you’re right,” Bearon agrees.
“So, you took her phone and locked her in my suite? Why didn’t you just put her in the Basement, since she’s so interested in seeing it?”
“I figured there must be some reason people can be locked in as well as out. I wanted to discuss it with you first. Maybe you’d change your mind and take her back to your place. Maybe bring her into the team. She’d be a great help if we could turn her. What little girl worries about getting into a car with a nice, clean-cut married couple?”
“Hmmm.” Bearon boots up the computer and turns to Clint as he waits for the monitors to come back on. He frowns and says, “I see you have some new jewelry to go with your new haircut.”
“Yeah, uh, this.” He lifts the pendant. “Kiersten gave it to me.”
“You mean you took it from her,” Bearon says, reaching his good hand out, palm up. “It wasn’t hers to give. I’ll take it now—”
He’s interrupted by the chiming of the front desk bell.
“What the hell? Someone’s here?” Bearon turns his attention back to the bank of monitors and growls, “goddamn fuckin’ Kiersten, turning these off! A damn nuisance not having the monitors up!”
“Did you leave the gate open?”
“Damn! I’m sure I closed it. Still. If I left the gate open, they could get this far, but I came into my office the back way. How’d they get inside? Isn’t the front door locked?”
Clint shrugs.
Bearon studies the monitors, now all online. “There’s a truck,” he observes, “but it’s parked too close under the camera to see if there’s anyone in it.” He switches to the view of the front lobby area, and gives a low whistle. “Goddamn! Look who just showed up.”
Clint takes a closer look and sees a small woman with a white streak in her short dark hair, and a tall blonde. “That’s her? The short one?”
“That’s her.”
“What the fuck are they doing here?”
“Go and see. Think up some reason to bring them back here.”
“Both of them?”
“For fuck’s sake, do you think you can just bring one? And do what with the other one?”
“What if she recognizes me?”
“You said she hasn’t seen you since you grew your beard and cut your hair. But if she does, just fuckin’ grab them. Can’t you deal with a couple of girls? Go!”
Clint jumps up and leaves the office.
Bearon sits back and watches the monitor. When he sees Astrid start to follow Clint, then Kathy say something and turn for the door, he curses. “Fuck! She made him!”
When a scuffle ensues, he thinks for a moment he should go to help, even though his hip is on fire and at best he can only shuffle along. He starts to rise but before he’s on his feet, it’s over. Astrid brings three hundred dollars worth of flowers down on Clint’s head, and the two women run out the door.
He hits the close gate command key. The monitor shows the truck backing away from the steps, and he realizes there are two men in the front seat. The goddamn husbands!
The gate is within range of his rifle. Can he get his rifle and pick them off when they stop there? Do they have guns with them? Would they have time to arm themselves and return fire? More likely unless he took out goddamn Danielson with his first shot, which is not a certainty, as soon as he realized they were under fire, he’d crash the truck through the gate.
If they make a complaint about Clint’s clumsy attempt at detaining them, that can be explained away, but shooting at them? It would certainly bring the heat down on the Lodge. He hits the key that reverses the gate closer. The monitor shows the gate isn’t moving, apparently stuck in the open position.
Clint raps on the door and Bearon presses the button to unlock it.
“Sorry, Bearon. Couldn’t make them stay. Something spooked them. And the bitch clobbered me.” He touches the side of his head where the vase hit him, and when he pulls his hand away, there’s blood on it. He’s been cut. Blood trickles down onto his shirt.
“Yeah, I saw. It’s just as well. If you hauled them in here, the husbands would’ve been looking for them anyhow. Damn Kiersten for taking the cameras offline! If I’d seen them coming, I would’ve known their husbands were with them and we could’ve stopped them before they got in the door. Is the fuckin’ door locked now?”
“I’ll check,” Clint offers.
“You’re gettin’ awful goddamn sloppy, Clint. First you let Kiersten get into my office, then you don’t notice the front gates are open, then you leave the door unlocked? To top it all off, you let two girls get the better of you. And you think you deserve a raise?”
“Sorry, boss.”
Bearon scowls at Clint’s tone, and might call him on it, but Clint has already left the office to check the front door. He turns to the monitor and watches him cross the lobby. But instead of throwing the deadbolt, Clint opens the door and goes out, letting the door slam behind him.
Bearon checks the front parking area monitor and sees Clint climb into the driver’s seat of the Range Rover and buckle his seatbelt. He mutters, “What the fuck does he think he’s doing?”
Clint looks up at the camera and smiles, then lifts his hand in the middle finger salute before backing the Range Rover, turning it toward the gate and flooring it. It leaps away.
“What the fuck? You just signed your death warrant, Reardon!” He hits the close gate command, then watches in dismay as the gate stays wide open. He hits the button again and again, with the same result.
The Range Rover is approaching the open gate when three motorcycles come up the road and stop. The Range Rover stops too, and one of the bikers rolls up to the driver’s window, obviously conversing with Clint. In less than a minute, all continue on their way.
“What are they doing here?” he mutters. They admitted they hadn’t done the job so they can’t be looking for more money. Then as they come closer, he realizes he doesn’t recognize them or their motorcycles. They aren’t Raptors.
His guts clench and in that split second, he knows Hayward’s truck going off the road wasn’t an accident. And that now they’re coming for him.
He rushes out of his office and heads to the front door, locks it, then scurries back. His office door is locked. Why the fuck did I let this door close? In a panic, he fumbles with the key card. The bikers are pounding on the front door before he’s finally able to push the door in. As he turns to close it, he sees the window next to the door—a costly, custom-made stained glass work of art depicting a bear—shatter. A gloved hand reaches in to turn the lock.
Will the office door stop them? Not likely. It won’t stop bullets. Should he go down into the Basement? Would Clint have told them about the hidden door? It doesn’t matter. He doesn’t have time to reach either the elevator or the stairwell to the basement without being seen and there’s no way he can outrun anyone. Goddamn this useless fuckin’ body! His only chance is to get to the secure enclosure of his cabin.
He takes precious seconds to push the credenza in front of the door so it can’t be kicked in, then hurries out the back way, clenching his teeth against the fire in his hip, his lame leg dragging. He climbs into the Kubota and turns the key. It coughs a couple of times before the engine catches. He backs around and heads for the gate behind the garage, hoping they don’t know about it, and that they haven’t left someone outside to watch. As he
passes the open area between the Lodge and the garage, he sees the three motorcycles parked in front, and no one on watch. So far so good.
He gets to the gate and pulls the cluster of keys out of his pocket. Cursing the rain and his mutilated hand that makes everything difficult, he manages to get the padlock on the chain undone and push the gate open. When he’s driven the Kubota through, he shuts the gate again. The padlock has fallen off into a patch of Oregon grape. Should he take the time to look for it and lock it again? Probably wouldn’t stop them anyway. Will they ride their bikes on a rough trail like this, even if they do find the gate? Would he have ridden his bike through here? Maybe.
He definitely doesn’t have time to grub around in the bushes looking for the padlock. If they have cutters, the chain won’t stop them anyway. He can only hope that if they know where he lives, they’ll go back to the highway and come in that way. There’s a chance they didn’t see him go into his office and if they didn’t, where would they start looking? It’ll take time before they realize he’s not in the Lodge.
He gets back in the UTV and drives off at speed, pounding over roots and rocks, fire knifing through his hip with every bounce. He’s soon deep enough into the forest no one at the gate could see him, and the rain is obliterating his tracks. He breathes a sigh of relief.
His situation is still desperate, but even if they saw him go into the office, break the door down, find the back door, and figure out he’s not in the Lodge, it’ll take them at least an hour to get to his house by the main roads. He can be home behind the electrified fence long before they arrive.
He has time. He slows the Kubota to a more comfortable speed. Once he’s home, he’ll set up his sniper rifle and have a surprise waiting for them!
The cab of the Kubota keeps him dry, but the wind is picking up. Branches are flying around, crashing down on the roof. He begins to worry there may be big branches coming down. The ones loggers call ‘widow makers’. Branches that have broken off and are hanging up in the trees, just waiting for a wind strong enough to dislodge them. He grits his teeth and ups his speed again. He loves the forest and tells himself it will take care of him.
As he has that thought, a huge Douglas fir crashes down across the trail just meters in front of him. He slams on the brakes. Another smaller fir, partially uprooted by the falling giant, topples beside it. Yes, the forest took care of him. The tree didn’t land on him. But it has stopped him.
There’s a chainsaw in the Kubota, but it would take hours to cut through the big tree, and then he wouldn’t be able to move the cut blocks out of the way. He scans the trail on either side. He has scouted the area and knows there is no way for the UTV to get through the forest except by this trail. The only way around the deadfall is on foot. He turns the Kubota off and gets out, pulling the rifle off the gun rack, and begins the hike around the fallen trees.
The tops of the trees are whipping around in the high winds, but it’s surprisingly calm at ground level. He struggles through the dense underbrush, skirting rocky outcroppings until he’s back on the trail, continuing homeward as briskly as he can. He checks his watch and calculates he still has plenty of time, as long as no more trees topple.
He’s not used to physical activity so he tires fast. He stops for a second to catch his breath, notices the scent of smoke in the wind, and wonders how close the fire is.
He hears a snap! up above and a swishing sound. He flings his arm up just in time to ward off a falling branch, dropping the rifle as he does so.
“Arrghh!” he screams. Not the whole tree, but a decent-sized branch, maybe fifteen centimeters in diameter and three meters long. It would have killed him if it wasn’t a glancing blow and if he hadn’t shielded his head with his arm. As it is, it’s excruciatingly painful to move his arm. It’s likely broken. He clenches his teeth and lets it hang, picking up the rifle one handed. “No more of that! No more of that!” he groans as he lurches along.
At least the rain is letting up. Too late to make a difference, though. He’s already wet and cold, and the path is slick enough to make the tough going even tougher. He slips and falls, screaming in agony as he reflexively throws out both arms, wrenching his bad leg under him. The pain from his injured arm is almost enough to make him pass out.
He pulls his leg out from under him and sits for a moment, cradling his injured arm, rocking and moaning, and is shocked to realizes he’s crying. “Get up, you stupid bastard,” he commands himself; he works his way onto his knees, picks up the rifle and using it like a cane, gets back on his feet. He pushes on.
Finally the compound comes in sight. As painfully slow as his progress has been, a check of his watch shows he still has time to get inside before anyone could get here from the Lodge, even if they left right after he did.
Once in the cleared area next to the chain link fence, the going is easier. Still, it takes a supreme effort of will to get to the gate. His right arm is hanging uselessly. He drops the rifle and uses his left hand to flip the cover on the touch pad up and punch in the enter code.
Nothing happens.
He must have put in a wrong number. He curses, knowing he occasionally hits the six instead of the nine. Now he has to enter the correct number three times.
He straightens and looks anxiously up the driveway. Is that sound approaching motorcycles? Already? He takes several deep breaths. There is no one approaching and the sound he thought he heard was a trick of the storm and his imagination.
Commanding himself to remain calm, he carefully enters the correct code. He moans with relief when the gate begins to roll open. He hits the enter button when it’s just wide enough for him to pass through, sending it back to the closed position. They won’t be able to get in. Unless…has Clint given them the enter code? Even if he hasn’t, he’s a sitting duck out here in the open.
He can barely move his bad leg now, but with the rifle as a crutch, he manages to lurch across the yard and up the steps to the door. He drops the rifle and enters the lock code without mistake. He leaves the rifle, knowing it’s useless with dirt plugging its barrel and he has no time to clean it. He’ll get another one from the rack over the couch. But first, Oxycontin.
He pushes the door in and closes it behind him, then touches the button on the panel next to the door that disables the keypad for the gate. He blows out a long breath. Now he’s safe.
It’s oddly cold in the house and there’s a hint of smoke much like the wind outside. He must have left a window open. That’s not a priority just now. Safe in his forest womb, he’ll take some oxy and get his rifle set up before he rests.
He nearly collapses onto the arm of the couch, but desperately needs Oxycontin. He must get the pain under control before he takes a look at his arm. At a minimum, he’ll have to splint it. If it’s serious. If bones have punctured the skin, he may have to go to a hospital. That prospect, with all its attendant problems, he pushes to the back of his mind.
He pulls himself up and shuffles to the kitchen, holding up in the doorway. The kitchen is filled with branches. There’s an odd, pungent smell. In an instant he realizes what happened: one of the giant firs fell, crushing the house. There’s no question the fence would be crushed, too. It won’t keep anything out now. How had he not seen the tree on the house when he was outside? It must be big enough to hang over the peak of the roof.
There’s a snuffling sound and the bear pushes through the curtain of fir branches. A jolt of panic courses through Bearon. Where can he go to get away? If he barricades himself in a room, can the bear break through?
The bear lifts his head and turns his white-patched face to look Bearon in the eye.
“Aaarghhh!” he roars.
Thirty-four
Bear Man Gone
THE RCMP CRUISER rolls to a stop at the gate. The driver leans out and punches the intercom. After a couple of tries with no response, he says, “I think we should check and make sure everyone’s out. Someone might be hurt, the size of those trees on the hous
e—must be some serious damage.”
“What about the electric fence?”
“Not likely it’s still active, not with those trees down on it.” He points at another clump of trees over the fence, then touches the gate and jerks his hand away. “Nope. Shorted out. I’m not happy about having to climb it, though. Maybe I can disengage the opener.”
While the first constable is trying to get at the device that drives the opener by reaching through the barbwire, the second constable gets out, goes to the trunk and pulls out the piece of floor that conceals the spare tire. “If you’re sure we have to do this, when you give up on that opener, we can put this over the wire,” he explains.
“Yeah, we have to. What if it’s a woman with kids? We have to.”
With the heavy carpeting protecting them from the wire, the two manage to climb over.
“Jesus fuckin’ Christ,” one says as he grunts and gasps at the exertion, “I didn’t sign up for this! Why’d this place have to be on our fuckin’ list?”
The front door is locked and no one answers their knock. The first constable presses his face up to the window. “Something bad went on in there,” he says, and steps back. “I think there’s blood spray on the far wall there.”
The other constable looks in. “I think you’re right.”
“Maybe we can get in the back.”
They hurry around to the back of the house and see that a huge tree has demolished the deck. Branches and the massive trunk conceal most of the back wall of the house. The wall-to-wall, ceiling to floor windows are smashed.
The first constable carefully sticks his head through the broken window and calls out: “anyone home? Hello? RCMP! Anyone home? More blood, Dave. Look!” He points to dark red sprays on the wall. “Someone’s hurt, all right.”
He picks up a deck chair, breaks out the glass shards still stuck in the frame, and goes in. The second constable comes through behind him; they pick their way through glass and branches. The refrigerator and cupboard doors are standing open and there’s food everywhere.
The Bear Mountain Secret Page 33
