“Where did they find you?”
“According to the first mate, I was deep in the trading corridor between the island of Gweyd and the southern coastline of Preton. The men said there were no towns or cities close by and they figured I must have been a member of a ship lost in a storm the night before. They carried on to Deep Cove and left me here when they set sail.”
“Why did Kline take you in?”
“I had it rough for several months,” said B.S. “I lived on the beach for a while and helped with the loading and unloading of ships for spare coppers. It supplied me with enough money to eat. Somehow, I became acquainted with Kline’s men. They were a tough lot, but they took to me. I guess I had a similar nature, having learned how to fight for myself with all the rough types down in the dock area. I guess Mr. Kline heard stories about me and asked to meet me. For some reason, he took a shine to me and gave me a job. I’ve been working for him ever since.”
“I see,” said Honi. “Garrett told me you like to write in your book. Can I have a look?” B.S’s eyes went to the notebook on his lap and instinctively, he covered it with his hand. After a moment’s deliberation he passed it to the policeman.
Honi accepted it and reached for his glasses that were lying on the blankets. For several minutes, the officer flipped through the pages, reading the passages and assessing the pictures and diagrams B.S. had sketched. Beside him, B.S. remained quiet as he sipped his coffee. At last, Honi turned back several pages and looked at B.S. “It says here that you don’t know how these contraptions come into your mind, yet you know how to construct them.”
“They come to me out of the fog,” admitted B.S.
“Like the snowshoes, and this,” Honi flipped the book around to show B.S. a sketch he had made.”
“Yes,” agreed B.S.
“What is it?” asked Merle excitedly, his newspaper forgotten. B.S. glanced over and saw Garrett scowl at the little dragon.
“I don’t know. A trap of some sort,” said B.S. “I just know how to build it, but I don’t know how I learned or why?” He felt awkward admitting his insecurities to the men. “I thought I should add pictures of these tools to my journal in case it helps me remember later on.”
Honi looked both disappointed and thoughtful at the same time. “These are the exact type of things a man like Ersk could teach you. This box trap could be used to catch sable.”
“There are all kinds of trappers around here that would use snowshoes and box traps,” said Merle unconvinced. This time Garrett said something to the dragon. Merle snorted and picked up his paper again.
Ignoring Merle, Honi continued. “It’s true that many people would use these tools, B.S., but I don’t think you should dismiss the possibility that Ersk might be your grandfather. I think it’s as good a lead as any for you right now.”
B.S. leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes. He rubbed at his temples and felt the weight of his uncertainty settle over him. “I don’t know, Mr. Honi. My memories may lie within your tale. They may not. Your story has not helped me to remember, so how can I possibly know for sure?”
Honi removed his glasses and passed the journal back to B.S. “I know it’s important for you to remember, B.S., so there is only one thing I can recommend. You must go to the Ghondorian and find out for yourself if you have any ties there.”
* * * *
B.S. tossed on his bed, sweat covering his upper body. He was dreaming again. This time, the feeling of being powerless was intensified, because he was penned in a small cage. It was the dead of winter and snow covered the ground. He was positioned high on a forested hilltop and could see down into a wooded valley below him. A sparkling emerald river cut along the base of the hill. Not far from the water’s edge, a distant cottage belched wood smoke into the air.
Somehow he had been locked in this cage that was much too small for him. He grasped the bars, trying to snap them. He thought he could feel one of the maple branches bending. In front of the cage, the familiar figure of the old man was tending a fire. The trapper was garbed in wolf furs, and he poked at the flames with a long stick. “Why have you locked me in here?” screamed B.S., but if the man could hear him, he made no sign of it. He cried out again, “Release meeeeeeeeee!”
As if in answer to his pain, the howl of a wolf echoed across the wooded hilltop. It was dark now, and the wind had grown cold. He felt a shudder race up his back and he could not explain where the daylight had fled. Several sets of eyes glistened from the blackness beyond the firelight. The dominant male of the pack entered the clearing, its teeth bared and the fur on its back raised threateningly. The old man did not see the danger.
Somehow, B.S. turned within the tight confines of the cage; his foot lashed out and snapped the poles of the enclosure. He spun again and attempted to squeeze through the opening, but his shirt caught on the splintered ends of the sticks. He could only watch as the old man fell beneath the snapping jaws of the giant wolf. Howls erupted from all around him and B.S. dragged himself forward on his hands.
The fire: he had to reach the fire. Desperately he reached into the firepit and dragged a burning log clear. The wolf had its back to B.S. and was shaking its head from side to side over the old trapper. The man’s upper torso oscillated under the creature’s grip and the snow was drenched in blood. B.S. hurled the blazing log at the beast and it connected with a flash of embers. The long hairs of the wolf’s back caught fire and it yowled in pain before bounding into the darkness of the forest. B.S. now realised he had been safe inside the wooden pen.
Golden eyes followed his movements from the timberline as he dragged his cage to the old man. The trapper’s lifeless eyes stared into the sky, and a gaping bloody mess was all that remained of his throat. “Who am I?” sobbed the boy. “What is my name?” He shook the lifeless man, but dared not look into the woods.
“Grandson,” came the dead sigh from the old man’s lips.
And then, the wolves attacked.
B.S. jolted upright in his bed. The heavy rains echoed on the tin of his roof and it took him a moment to realise he was safe in his shack. Swinging his legs from the bed, he forced the recent dream from his mind as his toes sought out his boots. He had lain down with only his pants on and now he was cold under the sheen of sweat. He pulled his shirt on, but didn’t bother to button it. He lit a lantern from the table and went to the door. Grabbing the shovel from where he kept it in the corner of the room, he strode into the darkness and the rain. Kicking the door closed behind him, he made for the graveyard at the back of the property.
He thought he heard movement behind him, but when he turned there was only the shadow of the old willow beside the shack. The conversation with officer Honi replayed in his mind as he walked. ‘Ersk had a grandson, a boy of about three or four when I first arrived at Emerald Waters… Ersk’s farm was raided and the sable butchered and taken by pirates. Ersk himself almost died in the attack. His daughter was raped and killed. His grandson disappeared that day and was never seen again.’
B.S. nestled the shovel over his shoulder and blinked to clear the rain from his eyes. ‘Could I be his grandson… Yuri?’ He made his way into the graveyard, the stones casting long shadows in the light of his lamp.
This cemetery was one of three in Deep Cove and was by far the oldest. The markers here were green with age, many of them buried in the long grass and forgotten by the residents of the town. Walking along the base of a hill, B.S. came to the stone he sought and crossed over to the outside, where he would not disturb the ground above the corpse. Setting his lantern to the side, he forced the shovel into the soft earth. His mind was again working over the conversation he had shared with the policeman. Several shovelfuls later, he struck the surface of something hard and set aside his tool. Getting down on his knees, he wrestled the object from the ground and brushed the muddy gunk from the top of the crate. Opening the container, he removed a second smaller box, this one made of iron.
‘There is only one thing
I can recommend. You must go to the Ghondorian and find out for yourself if you have any ties there.’ B.S. removed the lid from the second coffer and manoeuvred his lantern over it. He was rewarded with the bright glint of gold. ‘This is everything I have. Thirteen years of savings.’ Gently, he replaced the top. ‘There is no price I would not pay to learn the truth.’
B.S. dropped the lantern and rolled to his side as he felt a presence rush up behind him. He lashed out with his foot, but missed the dark garbed figure as it sprang from his retaliatory strike. He rolled to his left and glimpsed a shovel descending before it took him in the forehead. He saw nothing after that.
18
Something’s Squirrely
Garrett leaned against the compound fence, waiting for Vic to reappear from the main building. He nodded as one of the groundskeepers passed. The man returned the gesture and continued on his way. Garrett knew nobody would question his presence on Kline’s property, but he also knew that to investigate the two red barns without Vic would be risky. Since the death of the warehouse guards, Kline had doubled security and it seemed you couldn’t go anywhere on the compound without being watched.
Vic appeared shortly, carrying two large pails and wearing an oversized set of rubber boots. The dullard stopped when he saw Garrett leaning against the gate leading into the penned in area. He looked confused then lifted one of the pails toward the sign on the fence. “Can’t you read, dummy?” he asked. “It say only me and furries allowed in barn.”
Garrett glanced at the warning board and nodded. It read ‘Authorised Personnel Only. No Exceptions!’ “Of course I can read,” he said. “Mr. Kline said I could help you tonight.”
Vic looked suspicious. “Mr. Kline not let anyone help Vic feed de squirrels before.”
“There’s always a first for everything,” said Garrett shooting a disarming grin at Vic.
“Okay,” agreed Vic, thrusting his pails at Garrett.
The smell hit him immediately and he almost turned away. “Gods, Vic - what is that?”
“Fish balls,” answered Vic.
“I didn’t know fish had balls,” he said, accepting the pails.
Vic let burst with a snort of laughter. “You a funny guy, Garredd.” He turned without further comment and walked back to the storeroom door. Garrett held the pails unsure of what the younger man was doing. At last Vic reappeared with two more pails.
“Assistant Chef Gunny makes de fish balls out of flour, eggs, flaxes seeds, and um sometin’ else.”
“Fish?” supplied Garrett.
“Oh ya, dat.” Vic set his pails down and opened the gate. He motioned Garrett inside, before closing it behind them. He led Garrett to the first of the red barns and up to the side door leading into the building. “Why Mr. Kline tink I need help? Is it ‘cause of de babies?”
“I asked if I could help,” lied Garrett. “He doesn’t think you need help. He thinks you are doing a very good job.” Vic puffed out his chest and undid the latch on the door. He led the way into the barn and Garrett could hear the scuffling of many animals. A warm stink washed over them and Garrett allowed his eyes to adjust to the darker confines of the structure before following Vic inside. A row of windows built into the roof allowed a little light to reach the lower floor. Garrett could see a central aisle in the middle of the barn and dozens of pens lining either side of the walkway. The height of the barn had been cut in two and a second walkway led up to the storey above and more pens.
Stopping at the first enclosure, Vic smiled at Garrett. “I love de spring. Dat’s when my squirrels have babies!” Garrett looked closely and could make out several small critters in the pen. Two adult animals were at least three times the size of any squirrel he had ever encountered. “Want to hold one?” asked Vic excitedly. He placed two of the fish balls into the pen and scooped up one of the babies.
“No thanks,” said Garrett, assessing the barn again. He recalled the day on the docks with the rotting marlins. He was now certain he knew what goods the fish had contained. At the time, Maury had divulged that Mr. Kline did not deal in drugs but was more of a commodity man, preferring precious gemstones and the like. The answer had hit him when Detective Honi told B.S. that the most prized sable fur was known as black diamond. There had been other clues as to Kline’s trade commodities, like the fine fur coat the man wore. Then there was the twice daily feeding of Vic’s squirrels and the stringent rules surrounding the visitation of the barns.
In reality Garrett didn’t care if Kline moved drugs or illegal furs. The confirmation of the sable farm was only important in helping B.S. with his memory quandary. Garrett was certain that Honi had indeed recognised B.S., and that the boy had been taken from his grandfather and his home on the Ghondorian.
“Vic how long have you worked for Mr. Kline?” he asked as the other man put the baby sable back inside the pen.
“Long time,” said Vic, moving to the next pen.
“Did he always have the squirrels here?”
“No,” said Vic, delivering food into the cage. “He get dem when I was ten. I member cause he said I could feed dem as my birfday present.”
“That was nice of him,” said Garrett in a soft tone. “How old are you now, Vic?”
“Twenty-tree!” Vic beamed over at him. “I take good care of my squirrels for a long time!”
“Yes you have,” agreed Garrett. Vic’s answer came as no surprise and he had already guessed that Vic’s tenure as sable keeper would coincide with the amount of years B.S. had lived in Deep Cove.
* * * *
Garrett knocked on the guardhouse door and waited several seconds before Maury opened it. The Ogre smiled and allowed him entry into the building. “Garrett, what brings you our way?” The ogre retraced his steps to the hardwood counter where he was preparing himself a pasta dinner. “You want something to eat buddy? I made enough for the whole tribe!”
“No thanks,” returned Garrett, removing his footwear and stepping in from the entranceway. He stood there idly as Maury topped his dinner with a thick brown sauce. “It smells good though.”
“Ah,” said Maury, glancing up and winking, “It’s my grandma’s secret recipe. Boy, could that woman cook. I think I inherited some of her skill.” He gave a lopsided grin and pulled a chair out for Garrett. “If you don’t want pasta we have some leftover turkey in the cold room. I’m pretty much the only one who eats it, come the third day.”
“No no. You go ahead and eat. Merle fixed us a bite before I left. Unfortunately, he wasn’t working from any secret recipe.” Garrett considered this for a moment. “At any rate, if he was, it should have remained a secret.”
Maury laughed and nearly spilled the milk he was pouring. “You know, Frank was right about you. You are a funny guy. Maybe we could go on the road together.”
“I keep hearing that,” admitted Garrett. “I’m not much for people or crowds. Speaking of which, are we alone?”
Maury glanced at Garrett a fork full of dangling pasta half raised to his lips. “I don’t have any candles,” he said sheepishly and batted his eyes.
“Stop it,” said Garrett “I want to talk to you about something important.”
Maury nodded and lowered his fork. “Yes, we’re alone. Frank and Hector escorted Mr. Kline to the paddle ball match. You know how the old man likes to watch his paddle ball.”
“Good,” continued Garrett. “I had a conversation with our friend, Mr. Honi.”
“I don’t know why you’re keeping that cop around your place, Garrett. Cops can’t be trusted.”
Garrett stared at the ogre. “I know what you’re doing here,” he said at last. “I came to ask you to pull out.”
Maury slammed his fork down and pushed his chair back from the table. He didn’t bother to stand and looked to be fighting to find the right words. “I don’t know what you’re getting at, Garrett, but you better not try me.”
“Look, Maury. I know why you’re here, and I know that cops can be trusted,” he sai
d with intent. “Things are very dangerous for Mr. Kline’s employees, right now. You gain nothing by staying.”
“Why did you come to me?” asked Maury, shaking his head. “You know I’m a dead man if they uncover the truth.”
“They’ll never hear it from me,” assured Garrett. “I only came because Honi wanted me to talk some sense into you.”
“What the hell do you owe him?” snorted Maury.
“I don’t owe him anything,” said Garrett softly. “You’ve been good to me, Maury and I feel we’ve developed a friendship. I came because I owed it to you, no one else.”
Maury looked flustered. “Why in Hell did he open his big mouth? Is he trying to get me killed?”
“It wasn’t like that,” assured Garrett. “Merle and I went to Honi’s place the day after he was beaten. We went to get some of his personables, but discovered the apartment overturned. We found a letter written to the bureau’s senior officers. It detailed information about the sting and their undercover man. Honi never mentioned your name. I just put two and two together.”
Maury sat across from Garrett, his pasta forgotten. “Damn it,” he swore at last. “Honi didn’t send you to talk sense to me. He sent you to show me my cover was blown. Protocol dictates that I now disengage.”
“I didn’t think about it from that angle,” admitted Garrett.
“He’s a canny man.” Maury stood from the table and rubbed at his chin. “I can’t let four years of work go down the drain because of this gang infighting.”
“Honi says you have lots of data on Kline. They may not be interested in prosecuting now, but the information could be used in the future.”
“Enough,” said Maury with authority. “We can’t discuss this here. It’s not safe.” He glared at Garrett. “Does anyone else know about me?”
Welcome to Deep Cove (The Vellian Books Book 3) Page 18
