Laughter. That’s what he found. Horace was now lying on his back laughing up at him. And the laughter was contagious. Sasha soon joined in.
“Dad!” he heard a voice scold. “What have you done this time?”
Sasha looked behind him and saw the Mountie standing in the snow with his hands resting on his hips in a posture of disapproval. The sight of his upset son only made Horace laugh all the harder. Sasha fell onto his back in the snow and joined him, thankful that they had both survived the explosion.
* * *
“Things are out of hand,” Chuck said to me that night as we got ready for bed. “I don’t want to have my father here but don’t dare try to send him home either.”
“He wouldn’t go anyway,” I said, sympathizing with Chuck but trying to be realistic. “And at this point it might be best to take him into our confidences—at least a little. I mean, I don’t know if we can trust him on his own.”
“No,” Chuck agreed gloomily. “What the hell was he thinking? Something happened when my mother died.”
“He lost his anchor.”
“And has drifted into Looney Land.”
I made myself squash a smile. I have to admit to sometimes finding humor in dark places. You have to if all you have are dark places. But I don’t always share my thoughts with Chuck, whose soul is still lighter than mine.
“Well, cheer up. He wasn’t hurt and now we have an excuse for a missing body if we don’t want to turn over Brian’s remains.”
Chuck blinked, but he caught on at once.
“Blame the explosion on Brian?”
“Why not. No snowmobile, no body, no forensic evidence of any kind.”
“Hm.”
“And we had a successful meeting today.”
“We did? It seemed like chaos.”
“They always do.” I took a deep breath. “And I have been thinking about what we should do with that memory stick.”
I was trying to sound upbeat and sell Chuck on my plan.
“What? Let my father blow it up too?”
“Well, that’s an option. Maybe even a good one. But I was thinking of something else. Of someone else.”
Chuck looked at me.
“Desoto?” he asked. He meant Agent Desoto of the Federal Bureau of Investigation.
“Well, he would have the skills to break the stick open. And if it is something dreadful, he is far better able to deal with it than we are.”
“I know.” Chuck didn’t sound happy. He is a loyal Canadian and the idea of passing intelligence over the border sat wrong with him.
“Can you think of any way to give the thing to your people without getting in trouble, or leading them to the Gulch?”
“No. I don’t have any real friends and I don’t know whom to trust. If it was convenient for the higher-ups, they’d turn me into a sacrificial animal and bleed me for the evening news.”
“Well then.”
“I just wish I could figure this out myself.”
“What is the sticking point? Just that the files have passwords you can’t break?”
“No. It’s more than that. You see, there are two parts to that drive. It’s been partitioned. Part of it is heavily encrypted. Like it was used by two people. Or on two machines. And the part I can get open, I don’t understand.”
“So.”
“I know, but let’s sleep on it. If it still seems reasonable in the morning we’ll borrow Sasha’s special phone and call Agent Desoto.”
Chapter 11
The dawn was frozen in place and the cold clamped over my face the moment I poked my nose out of the covers. The first thing was to build up the fire before the blood retreated to my vital organs and my extremities fell off.
Okay, that is a bit of an exaggeration, but we had let the fire go out in the night and it was too cold for anyone except Max.
I got the fire going and then fried up bacon and bread. It was the kind of morning for a hearty breakfast full of fat and carbs.
Chuck and I discussed the matter backward and forward and decided that my plan was the best. We also agreed to keep Brian on ice in case Desoto didn’t come through and we needed whatever was in his body as evidence.
We went to the inn, had some coffee with Big John, Sasha, and the Flowers, and then Chuck asked Sasha if he could borrow his phone and Big John’s office.
Though the plan was mine, I found myself getting more nervous as we put it in action. Did we want to call the FBI? Did we want to invite the camel to put its nose under the tent flap? Was the fact they were in another country sufficient to guarantee that they wouldn’t get curious about the Gulch? After all, some of our residents were American.
Showtime. Chuck punched in the number and then handed me the tiny phone that had some kind of weird little plug-in on the bottom.
The phone was picked up after the second ring but it was an answering system. I supposed that this was better than speaking to a human who might identify my voice sometime in the future, but I absolutely hate pushing buttons and beeping my way through relays. Fortunately, it had an option for speaking and I could state the name of my desired party.
It was one in the afternoon and I hoped that Agent Desoto would be in. Phoning the FBI made me very nervous and I didn’t want to leave a message.
“Desoto,” a familiar voice barked.
“Agent Desoto, I don’t know if you’ll remember me—” Of course he would remember me, but I had to assume that phone calls were recorded. “I met you on a fishing trip to Canada last year.”
There was a pause and then he said, “Why yes. I recognize your voice.”
I nodded at Chuck.
“Well, sir, I am sorry to call you at work, but I don’t have a home number for you.”
“Not a problem at all. What can I do for you?” It was too much to say the voice was warm, but it was definitely curious and encouraging. I blessed him for being quick on the uptake and not saying my name.
“Well, I was cleaning out a closet here at the pub and I found a piece of fishing gear that I thought might belong to you. I was going to send it down but wasn’t sure if you would want it coming to the office.”
Agent Desoto was thinking hard. This was like playing bridge and trying to tell your partner through bidding what was in your hand. I leaned over and tilted the phone so Chuck could hear too.
“I could give you my home address,” the agent said slowly. “Or, I was actually thinking about coming back up to try some ice fishing. If you want to save yourself some postage,” he added.
I looked at Chuck. Now he was thinking too.
“Would your other friends be with you this time?” I thought hard at him to say no.
“I don’t think so. It would be difficult for them to arrange leave on such short notice.”
Chuck finally nodded his head. It was a hard choice. We didn’t really want the FBI agent in town, but what if the stick went astray in the mail or was intercepted by customs, who were inclined to open packages?
“Well, that would be wonderful. Would you like me to arrange a connecting flight from Winnipeg?”
“Would it be on the same airline I flew before?” Less enthusiasm for this.
“Yes. Not too many pilots want to land on the lake.” I added, “I expect there would be much less turbulence this time of year. The forecast isn’t saying anything about storms for the next few days.”
“I sincerely hope not.” His voice was wry. “I’d like to live to collect my pension.”
“What date should I plan for?”
“Would tomorrow suit? One second.” I heard him typing something. “I can get a flight at eight fifteen local time. That would put me into Winnipeg around one thirty.”
“Good. You remember the hangar where the Wings keeps his plane?”
“Yes.”
“He’ll be there. And there is only one guest at the pub right now, so there won’t be a problem with space. You’ll need to….” I stopped. I was about to say he woul
d need to stay overnight, but that was a given if he was coming for fishing and wanted the cover to stick. “Um … dress warmly. It’s still winter up here.”
“Will do. See you tomorrow.”
The phone went dead. I looked at Sasha’s tiny phone with all its buttons and finally found the correct one to turn it off.
“I hope we’re doing the right thing,” Chuck said.
“Yeah. I just don’t know what else we can do.”
Chuck nodded. So much of life is about hard choices.
* * *
Alone in his office, Agent Desoto finished booking his flight for Winnipeg, wondering what in the hell he was doing. As agent in charge of the satellite office, he had a lot of leeway in how he ran his operations, and after his recent busts and convictions of the local mafia types he was pretty much golden with the higher-ups. Still, this decision to go to McIntyre’s Gulch without leaving an official trail smacked of some rogue, clandestine operation. Especially since he had failed to mention anything about visiting Canada in his previous reports.
But by God it could be worth it. The last thing that Butterscotch had given him had been golden. If she had discovered something else…. Well, he had to risk it. And it was not uncommon for people in law enforcement to protect sources, he assured himself. That was all he was doing.
* * *
Mr. Smith, who was actually Martin Bressler and rather new to the job of surveillance, was sitting in the Seven Forks diner, nursing a cup of coffee and trying not to panic. He didn’t know what to do. They’d have his ass if he went back to Winnipeg and told them that he’d been given the slip—but hell’s bells! Rabid bears? Hikes through blizzards? He hadn’t signed on for that.
What the hell was he going to do?
Chapter 12
Desoto walked cautiously across the frozen tarmac to the Beech 18 where the Wings had the front hatch open so he could stuff his head into the engine compartment and work on one of the perpetually ailing guts of his twin-engine aircraft. The agent came to a halt behind the renegade pilot, and finding that he was being utterly ignored chose to clear his throat to get the Wings’ attention. In response to the minor stimulus, the pilot pulled back, beating his head violently against the engine canopy, and dropped a heavy tool at his feet, forcing him to dance in place to avoid further injury.
This was a man with a lot on his mind and Desoto was feeling very curious. He was also vengeful enough to be glad to get back at the pilot that had terrorized him last flight out.
“Dagnabit!” the Wings proclaimed. “Don’t sneak up on a man like that.”
“I’m sorry,” the agent replied, “but it’s the least intrusive way I could think of for getting your attention.”
“Sometimes people’s attentions should be left well enough alone, don’t you think?” the pilot retorted, his expression showing that he was still in pain.
“In any case, I’m here to catch a ride with you to McIntyre’s Gulch,” the agent explained. “That is if your craft is airworthy.”
“Oh, she’s more than airworthy,” the Wings said defensively, stepping back to the plane and slapping his hand down on the nose of the engine compartment.
In response to the slap, the engine disgorged a rather important-looking piece of its guts onto the tarmac. The Wings looked down at the rusty and dented part as it decanted oil onto the asphalt.
“Oh, that part isn’t necessary,” he explained in embarrassment as he bent to pick up the arrant engine component. “I can wait until we get to the Gulch to reattach that.”
“Yes, I’m sure you can,” the agent responded skeptically.
“Anyway, throw your bag in the back and climb onboard. I think we’re ready to get underway,” the Wings told him.
The agent did as instructed and waited patiently in the front passenger seat for the pilot to join him in the cockpit. The Wings climbed in and started up the engines to give them a chance to warm up. As always, he skipped the preflight checklist so he could get right to the good stuff. Satisfied with the sound of the engines and the readings on the gauges that worked, he slipped his radio headset on to obtain clearance from the tower to take off.
“Danny, you once more failed to file a flight plan,” the tower announced over the cabin speakers.
“Roger that, Barney. Just use the last one I filed; after all, the flight’s always the same.”
“Alright, but one of these years you’re going to have to file a new one.”
“Roger,” the Wings said before smiling at Desoto. “Flight plan,” he laughed.
“Mr. McIntyre,” Desoto said solemnly. “I feel as if I should let you know that your shenanigans won’t work with me.”
“What shenanigans would that be?”
“Any attempt to upset me by pretending that your craft is not working, that turbulence is causing the wild fluctuations in elevation, or that the plane is about to crash during our trip. I warn you now that I have an iron constitution and don’t spook easily.”
“Is that a fact?” the Wings replied.
Of course, this was the worst possible thing that Agent Desoto could have said to the likes of Danny “the Wings” McIntyre who viewed the simple statement as a personal affront and a challenge.
* * *
“The Wings is on landing approach and he’s got your detective friend with him,” Big John announced as I was waiting at his bar with a hot cup of coffee in my gloved hands. Temperatures had dropped again and even the short walk to the pub had chilled me.
“Is he landing on the lake?” I asked.
“Don’t think so.”
Anxious to see the FBI agent, I hopped off my stool and led Max out onto the porch to watch the landing in person. Within minutes I spotted the Wings’ plane. It looked like it was descending too fast and likely to crash. I watched as it pulled up at the last second, its wings wiggled before becoming level, and the wheels bounced down hard on the street. The landing concluded with Danny doing donuts at the town limits.
As usual, Danny bounded from his plane, seemingly happy to have survived another landing. His passenger fell from the other side, elevated himself onto his hands and knees, and began vomiting into the snow.
“Danny, what have you done this time?” I scolded. “I promised him he would have a better flight.”
Danny turned to watch as a second wave of nausea washed over the FBI agent.
“Oh, him,” he replied dismissively. “He asked for it.”
The Wings still looked guilty but stood his ground as if his simple statement explained everything.
“Danny,” I replied, shaking my head in disapproval.
“Well, he did!” The Wings simply walked off in search of Big John to help him unload supplies. I walked to the agent’s side to see if he needed any help getting up. Max kept his distance.
“That bastard!” Agent Desoto declared, looking up with angry eyes. “That was the worst roller coaster ride of my life.”
“That bad, was it?” I tried for sympathy.
“He beat my head against the ceiling the entire time and had me filling bags with vomit minutes after leaving the ground,” Desoto replied. “And who knew you could fly one of those things upside down.”
“What did you say to him to get his dander up?” I asked.
“The wrong thing, apparently.”
Desoto rose, shakily, and I followed him back to the plane to retrieve his bag. The inside of the plane smelled pretty bad, which might have explained why the Wings had left the pilot’s door open after exiting the craft.
“Do you have somewhere I can clean up before I see people?” Desoto asked.
“Sure. Follow me,” I said, leading him to my cabin. “I hope you get your appetite back soon.”
“Why?” Desoto sounded wary.
“We’re having a wake for a hand. The food is usually pretty good at these affairs.”
“A wake for a hand?” he repeated.
“It was all that was left after the bears got done,
” I explained.
“Holy Christ. You choose to live here?”
“Yes,” I said evenly. “It’s probably hard to believe, but there are things more dangerous than bears.”
Reminded of why he was there, the agent’s manner shifted. He even managed to stand straighter.
“You maybe want to fill me in?”
“I think Chuck had best do that,” I said. “I’m not real up on tech things.”
* * *
The Mountie looked up from Big John’s computer as Butterscotch and Agent Desoto came through the door.
“I’ll get you something to settle your stomach and the bathroom is through there,” Butterscotch said, taking off her coat.
“Danny the daredevil has struck again?” the Mountie guessed and Butterscotch nodded.
Max finally came over to sniff their guest. Desoto got points for offering his hand without flinching or asking stupid questions like would the dog bite.
“Take a minute to settle in and then I’ll show you what we’ve found,” Chuck said. “Hopefully you can figure it out because I’m stymied.”
Desoto turned away. His eyes moved about quickly, taking in the oil lamps and the old crank phone.
“Do you think you can get a blood sample through customs if you have to?” Chuck asked.
The agent turned back. He started to speak but then shook his head.
“I need a minute.”
Desoto took more like three minutes, but his complexion looked healthier when he returned.
“Okay, show me what you’ve got,” he said, taking a seat near Chuck.
“First, let me introduce myself. I’m Charles Goodhead of the RCMP.”
Desoto nodded. They did not shake hands.
Chuck turned the laptop so Desoto could see it.
“This isn’t my area,” Desoto said. “Can you give me any idea what I am looking at? Besides a lot of encrypted files?”
“This was found on a memory stick in the pocket of a crooked police officer of the RCMP who died on Butterscotch’s doorstep earlier this week. He had been shot and poisoned.”
Points West (A Butterscotch Jones Mystery Book 5) Page 6
