by Katie Berry
“Do you think it might be killing for sport, too?”
“It’s hard to say, but if this creature were to encounter any large numbers of the population, we’d have a bloodbath on our hands. It would look at the bumper crop of bodies like a smorgasbord. If he’s eaten his fill, he may just decide to play with his food, but from what we’ve seen, his appetite seems to be insatiable, so I doubt that. And I haven’t seen a trace of bear feces anywhere near the attacks. You would think for something that big, that there’d be evidence of it voiding its bowels somewhere out there.”
Austin added, “I’m sure it would be a pretty substantial pile.”
“Yes, and if we can find where it’s been defecating, at least we could verify what it has attacked and eaten.”
“If a bear shits in the forest, does anybody step in it?”
“Sort of along the lines of ‘If a tree falls…’, huh?”
“I see you grasped my unsubtle attempt at humour,” Austin chuckled.
“Was that what that was?” Christine said with a smile, and then added after a moment, “Oh my goodness, I almost forgot the coffee I promised you!” She walked over to a small counter off to one side.
“You didn’t have to go to all that trouble, Christine.”
“No trouble for Mr. Tim Horton,” she said, turning and holding two double-doubles, one in each hand.
“You are a lifesaver,” Austin said, taking one of the proffered cups of the still warm, creamy caffeinated beverage.
Raising her cardboard coffee cup to Austin’s in a toast to luck, Christine said, “Here's hoping we’ll save more lives than just one.”
“I’ll second that,” Austin said, touching his cup to hers. Together, they sipped their coffee. He observed Christine Moon over the rim of his paper cup. Her smooth forehead was now knitted in concentration as she leaned over the map, trying to extrapolate the beast’s future movements. A single strand of long blonde hair spilled from her loose ponytail down the side of her face. As he drank, a part of him felt something that he hadn’t over the last several days, or over the past year: hope.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Firelight from the blazing hearth gleamed in the mayor’s eyes, reflecting the heat of rage he felt as he fumed over the situation at the cavern.
“Why haven’t I heard anything back from that son of a bitch, Oritz,” Bob Nichols asked aloud. He was more than just a little pissed about Manny Oritz, or at least the lack of communication with the man.
Bob had been more than pleased when he discovered he'd have Oritz’s assistance up at the mine instead of the incompetent lackeys that Chance had hired previously. But as of right now, it’d been almost twenty-four hours since he’d heard a goddamned peep out of the bugger, and he was fuming. It seemed to him like there was a pretty good chance that Oritz may have decided to grab some of the gold and make like a little butterfly, fluttering off to Mexico or Spain or wherever the hell that shifty little bastard was from.
Nichols sipped his third scotch of the evening, feeling ill at the thought of how much gold might have been stolen so far by the incompetent, greedy morons that Chance had been hiring. After contemplating the crackling fireplace for several more minutes, he picked up the phone and punched in Chief Reggie VanDusen’s private number. With Oritz gone AWOL, Nichols figured he needed to get up there himself to see what in God’s name was happening, and he sure as hell wasn’t going alone. He endured what seemed like interminable ringing before VanDusen picked up the phone. With more than a hint of exasperation and condescension in his voice, the Chief of Police said, “Yes, Mr. Mayor, what seems to be the problem now.”
“That goddamned Oritz hasn’t checked in with me at all today!” Nichols almost shrieked at him.
“Okay, calm down, calm down! Maybe he’s busy doing some mining or exploring the cavern? Did you think of that?”
“It’s not what he’s doing up there, it what he’s not doing that’s pissing me off! And that’s keeping me in the loop!” There was a gulping sound as Nichols took another slug of his scotch in exasperation.
“If he’s at the back of the cavern, he might not be getting any reception on his cell. Remember, the lack of repeaters around here make the reception kind of spotty at the best of times.”
“He was supposed to check in this morning and never did! I’ve been trying to get a hold of him all day!”
“So?”
“So, tomorrow, I want you to take me up there so that I can see for myself what the hell’s going on!”
“Look, I’ve got a lot on my plate at the moment, Mr. Mayor with that goddamned bear and all. I don’t know if I’ll…”
Nichols cut VanDusen off. “No, what you’re going to do is this; you’re going to pick me up tomorrow at noon, and we’ll go up there and get things sorted out!”
There was a silence on the other end as VanDusen mulled over some possible responses to Nichols's demands. After a moment, he settled on, “Roger Wilco, over and out,” and hung up the phone before the mayor could finish everything he wanted to say.
“Goddammit!” Nichols roared, throwing his nearly empty glass into the fireplace. With a pop and a brief flash of flame, the crystal tumbler exploded against the back wall of the hearth, a fleeting rainbow of colour briefly bathed the study’s walls as the alcohol ignited.
***
VanDusen placed the receiver back on the cradle and regarded the phone for a moment as he pondered things. Nichols was getting way too worked up about this gold, but then again, that was understandable. With possibly hundreds of millions of dollars in gold just sitting up there at the cavern, waiting for someone to come along and scoop it up, it could make a guy go a little bonkers. And then there was that ‘partnership’ between Nichols and Chance which certainly didn't help things.
Back in the early ’80s, when they’d first partnered up to purchase the ski hill from the lawsuit riddled Sinclair Corporation, Bob Nichols and Ray Chance had been the best of friends. Over the years, the pair had worked on several real-estate deals around town and earned quite a reputation for themselves as vibrant entrepreneurs who were more than willing to do their part to revitalise the city of Lawless. But, since that time, there’d been quite a bit of animosity and in-fighting between the two as they grew more familiar with each other and their respective shady business practices. Now, it seemed that the situation had devolved to the point that Nichols didn’t trust Chance at all and vice versa. That was just fine with Reggie.
At the mine, each man tried to make sure they had one of their representatives up there at all times, or in Oritz’s case, a man able to work both sides. Of course, the in-fighting and lack of trust was something that most definitely worked in Reggie’s favour as well. He was more than able to dip his own little treasure bucket into this bottomless well of gold, so to speak, and collect what he viewed as his fair share of proceeds scattered about the cavern.
Smiling, Reggie turned his attention back to the person lying next to him in bed. He’d bought some of the finest champagne for them to drink so they could celebrate all of their hard work ripping off their mutual employers. Things had worked out pretty well for them -- their little caper had netted them over five burlap sacks of nuggets, weighing in at over twenty kilos each, worth a little over four million dollars, according to Reggie’s calculations.
Since neither Chance nor Nichols realised how much gold was up there to start with, he and his new partner were free to help themselves to as much as they wanted, for the moment. But they weren’t greedy. No sir, Reggie had made sure to leave the remaining five out of the ten bags he’d recently ‘found’ at the cavern. Yup, a fifty-fifty split that Chance or Nichols knew nothing about seemed more than fair to VanDusen, seeing as he was doing all of the dirty work. And it was the icing on the cake to be supplied with information by the young woman next to him, who was both beautiful and devious -- definitely his kind of woman.
A sparkle of mischief in her eyes, Roxanne Rooney dropped a single
whipped cream-covered strawberry into Reggie’s VanDusen’s waiting mouth. He watched as her red lips slowly licked the residue off of her long, crimson-tipped fingernails, and he smiled. Yeah, life was good.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Friday and Saturday nights were usually the busiest nights of the week at Frostbite Fred’s and the parking situation this evening could attest to that. Trip Williams pulled into a lot almost full to bursting and threatening to spill out onto the highway. Dozens of pickup trucks were crammed into its confines, along with the odd SUV scattered throughout. Some of these trucks had decks on their beds, and others with trailers, but they all shared the same cargo; gleaming snow-chariots sat primed and ready to go for a round of high-speed fun the next day. He wondered how many of the revellers inside were aware of the avalanche and bear advisory now in effect that would be putting a damper on their fun the next day.
But not all of the pickup belonged to sledders -- some were dirty, weathered and meant for work rather than recreation. Trip nodded in recognition as he wandered through the foggy lot toward the pub. The usual contingent of mill-workers had also gathered at Fred’s tonight, seeking to quench their thirst and lubricate their dust-covered throats.
Trip felt the vibration from the driving bass inside the pub tickling his spine before he could even pull open the pine doors. Every Friday night was the start of live music weekends at Frostbite Fred’s Public House. He enjoyed the live bands playing at the pub on weekends, but only wished they issued some foam earplugs at the door. But since there was no cover charge, he wasn’t going to complain. The upcoming hockey game was going to be playing in the background on the big screen on the rear wall of the pub, but he wouldn't be able to hear it because of the music. He was okay with that -- he’d brought along his earbuds so he could listen to the game streamed through his cell phone on the pub’s Wi-Fi.
Inhaling deeply, Trip pulled the door open and felt the sound waves wash over him. He exhaled explosively, then took another deep breath, this time of the air inside the bar. He relished the smell of beer-soaked sawdust and peanut shells from the floor that assailed his nostrils. But even more than that, it was the mouthwatering scent of pork ribs and roast beef lingering on the air molecules that intrigued Trip's olfactory senses the most.
“Honey, I’m home,” Trip said, a grin threatening to burst through his beard as he plunged into the crowded pub. A rainbow of neon colours washed over him from flashing signs that announced some of the dozen beers available from the gleaming brass taps jutting from the beautiful mahogany bar. A massive mirror covered the wall behind it with row upon row of exotic spirits reflected in its spotless surface.
Dozens of dusty mill-workers were desperately trying to TGIF some of the sawdust from their parched throats with Fred’s house-brewed, small-batch, beers and ales. Scattered amongst the lunch-pail bunch were at least a dozen groups of snowmobilers as well, laughing and giggling to themselves. Their gaudy, neon snowsuits sprouted like Gore-Tex flowers amid a meadow of drab, sawdust-covered plaid.
Many of the patrons were grooving along to the music from the live band that the bar had provided for the evening’s entertainment. This week, it was HipBone playing on stage, a rockin’ local group of kids from the neighbouring Kootenay town of Castlegar, located about a hundred kilometres from Lawless. Trip had heard them when they’d played at the bar a few months back and rather liked their sound. The group sounded in fine form tonight, playing covers of some classic rock songs, as well as probably a few country favourites thrown in to keep the line-dancing contingency in the far corner happy.
A low stage ran along one wall of the pub. Behind it, a plate-glass window provided a magnificent view of the mountains in the daylight, when the weather was cooperating. The lead singer of HipBone, a thin young man with long, stringy, brown hair, stood with his back to the large window. The kid was so gaunt that every time he turned sideways, he almost disappeared, Trip noted with a slight smirk. However, even if the lead singer had been more substantial, tonight, there was no view for him to block. The only thing visible through the window behind him was a wall of multi-coloured, glowing mist, illuminated by the spotlights outside the window. It created quite a dramatic effect. But apart from that -- nope, nobody was missing much.
The stringy-haired kid wailed away into the microphone. Apparently, his line of reasoning went that louder was always better. Trip winced slightly -- it seemed the current volume level of the music was already just a hair shy of ‘OMG! My eardrums are bleeding!’. Yup, he’d definitely have to mention the earplug idea to Greg at the bar.
Trip knew the one thing that owners, Norm and Mattie, always prided themselves on was keeping their customers happy. And by god, if loud music was what they wanted, Mattie said, then that was what they were going to get! Conveniently, neither of them were in the building when it was time for the music to begin. They were usually done their day shift by five o’clock, and he figured they were relaxing at home now, eating dinner and watching Wheel of Fortune.
Max Renaud, the reigning Kootenay god of smoked meat, was in attendance at the bar's kitchen tonight, like most nights. The tall Quebecer headed from the bar into the kitchen, working his way through the crowd. Trip pondered what Max was going outside to tend to at his smoker, and his stomach growled. Was it baby back ribs? Or perhaps hearty beef ribs? Maybe it was one of his delicious slabs of Angus prime-rib roast? Trip brought up his internal image of Frostbite Fred’s menu and decided he’d have the number thirteen, the Carnosaur Combo, which included all three of the delicious delicacies. They were probably just getting to the ‘fall off the bone and call me delicious stage’, as page seven of the menu proudly proclaimed.
Trip sidled slowly through the crush of people, nodding to several of the locals he knew along the way. On their plates were heaps and heaps of the melt-in-your-mouth meats. As he passed, the face of one patron ignited into a flash of joy as the server, Jenny Smith, placed a steaming plate of the succulent ribs onto the table in front of him. They glistened under the neon lights, taunting Trip’s poor belly with a come-hither look that made it bay like Lon Chaney Jr at the moon.
Jenny Smith was looking rather harried and overworked tonight for some reason. Then Trip looked across the room and suddenly saw why. Working alongside Jenny was Carlene Boseman. Although, ‘working’ was a rather strong word for what Carlene was currently doing. The girl stood there, chatting away with a group of her friends on the other side of the room while Jenny flitted from table to table, hustling her butt off, as usual.
Arms folded, watching the difference in work ethics between his two servers was bartender and shift-supervisor, Greg Canton. At the moment, Greg was frowning very thoughtfully in Carlene Boseman’s direction.
Trip bellied up to the bar, squeezing in between two city-folk. They appeared to be fresh in from the coast, sporting matching neon-yellow snowsuits that made Trip wish he’d brought his Raybans with him from the truck. “Evening, Greg. I see you’re in the middle of a work dispute.”
“Yeah, you’re right.” He continued to glare in Carlene’s direction. “I’m currently disputing the amount of work I want to continue to give to Carlene in the foreseeable future.”
Trip laughed and ordered a pint of Frostbite Fred’s Amber Ale. Several moments later, his eyes lit up as he took his first delicate sip of the small, but creamy head left on top of the pint by the affable Australian’s exceptional aesthetic abilities. Trip complimented the bartender on his professional pour and asked him to add the pint to his tab. Greg gave him a quick grin, thumbs up and a “Good on ya!” in return.
With a smile, Trip began to negotiate his way through the crowded pub, his treasured mug of steam-brewed, barley-infused gold clutched protectively to his chest. He moved toward his favourite spot; a small, round table tucked into the far corner near the fireplace. A large red reserved sign sat atop this minuscule table. Trip placed the sign face down and relaxed with a grunt on the single, comically petite chair that
sat behind it. Taking an almost reverential sip of his fresh brew, he peered over the rim of his mug at the throng of people around him.
***
A smile from a recent generous tip turned into a frown of frustration as Jenny Smith looked Carlene Boseman’s way. She fumed at the table-waiting arrangements this evening, having to work opposite the other woman. Jenny had no doubt she was going to be run ragged most of the night as Ms. Boseman was not the sort of person that gave her ‘all’ to a job. Jenny knew from back in high school that Carlene was a person who tried to give her ‘least’ to a job if anything. The girl coasted along in life, fluttering her thick, black eyelashes at anyone who would pay attention, forever trying to get away with doing the bare minimum at whatever she was doing, and hoping that somebody else would cover the slack for her. Well, that wasn’t going to happen tonight, Jenny thought, especially not with the packed house they had this evening, they needed everyone here doing their job to the best of their ability. She looked toward Carlene again, shooting daggers from her eyes at the girl.
