Big Bones (A Butterscotch Jones Mystery Book 2)

by Jackson, Melanie

  Chapter 7

  The country outside of town was very good at reminding one about who was the real boss of the planet, and Chuck was not entirely surprised to hear the dismay in Butterscotch’s voice when she announced that it was going to rain. Water would only compound their problems.

  A look at the sky from the next ridge confirmed that it was half covered in roiling gray clouds, the kind that meant you harm. In the city, he would ignore them, believing in the efficiency of the city’s power and drainage companies that would keep everyone safe. Out here it could mean trouble. He simply trusted that Butterscotch knew what to do in the event of a violent storm.

  A moment after this thought formed, he realized that it was a strange one. Not new though. He had trusted her and Max last winter during the whiteout and, though unorthodox in her thinking, she had kept everyone from harm. They had worked as partners. As a rule, Chuck didn’t much rely on other people’s judgment, didn’t like having a partner on the job. Deep down, though it went against commonsense and training, he must trust her to again be treating her as his partner in this venture.

  The wind picked up before noon and it felt angry and violent, which was why the storm moved so fast. It seemed to be coming right at them. Chuck knew that they would have to turn back soon and was frustrated because another delay would mean even more pressure on the divers to do something from whoever was waiting for words from the spy.

  * * *

  It figured that it would start to rain when we found the body. Well, when Max found the body.

  Chuck got his wish. There were rip marks aplenty on the corpse. There was also a handgun beside it— small caliber and ineffective against anything larger than a hare.

  “Was it fired?” I asked Chuck who had put on latex gloves and was carefully bagging the weapon.

  “Yes. Two shots.”

  People who carry guns habitually have a tendency to get careless, to think that the threat of their weapon can protect them from anything. They forget that they have that gun because they are placing themselves in circumstances where the odds that they could die are much higher than average and that they need to be extra vigilant. Had that happened here? Had Dark Glasses been so arrogant that he hadn’t even bothered to watch for danger, and counted on his little gun to get him out of it when it arrived? Or had he been so ignorant of his surroundings that he hadn’t thought there was any danger at all?

  I found a torn strap from what looked like a backpack and Chuck bagged that too.

  “Damn it,” I muttered, wishing we could find the pack and discover if it actually had the missing bones in it. It was the least of our concerns, but I figured we didn’t need to risk angry spirits or Old Thunder doing something stupid because he thought they needed to be appeased.

  I had been prepared to believe that Dark Glasses had killed the anthropologist, thinking the poor schmuck had found the black box on some dead Russian’s body and put it in his backpack to take back to town.

  But who— or what—— had killed the skulker afterward? It looked like an animal attack, sure enough, but not a bear. Bear claws line up neatly in tight rows. These looked more spread out, like a lynx’s claws. Or maybe a wolverine.

  Or a human hand. A really, really big human hand. Bigger than Sasha’s, I insisted silently. And it had claws. Or a glove with knives on its fingers.

  No, that was silly horror movie stuff.

  Okay, it could be some bear with a mutation, a birth defect of the paws. I was betting we were going with the mutant bear story since it worked the first time.

  Dark Glasses had not been defaced like the anthropologist. I allowed myself to look at his brown eyes, four o’clock shadow and open mouth in a gray face, trying to grant him actual personhood. It didn’t work. He remained an anonymous villain. I had half an urge to ask Chuck to put his sunglasses back on him, but managed not to express this wish out loud.

  Wrapping the skulker’s body was easier because Chuck had brought a proper body bag. It was also less distressing, despite the rewetted blood pooling around the corpse, because the find was expected and neither of us had liked him. Or, at least the idea of him. He might have been a lovely human in other contexts.

  There were also no insects this time.

  No plants.

  No life of any kind.

  But there were scorch marks on the glassy rocks all around us, coming clearer as they were wetted with rain.

  Finally, though belatedly, I began to get the creeps.

  “We need to get out of here.” A nearby lightning strike made my point for me.

  We both grabbed a side handle on the body bag and began dragging it down the hill and into the shelter of the stunted trees that lined the nearest ravine. By now we were very wet but I didn’t mind. Rain would wipe out the crime scene and it might even have washed unwanted evidence off the corpse.

  Don’t get me wrong. I do not support murder. If this was murder. But if someone had felt they needed to defend themselves against Dark Glasses and his gun, I was probably on their side.

  “We will stay in the ravine until it begins to flood,” I said. “By then we’ll be away from the hot spot and can head for higher ground.”

  “Hot spot?” Chuck’s voice was loud and I guessed his ears were ringing from the thunder too.

  “A place that draws lightning. Nature’s lightning rods,” I added. I guess I was talking a little high volume too since Max was staring at me with doggie consternation. The last strike had been close and very loud. Ozone still filled my mouth and nose and made me choke.

  The dim light played tricks with our depth perception, but we kept on at our best pace until the air felt more normal and water was up to our ankles. After that we pulled ourselves through the undergrowth and got back on track. Max was calm throughout, so I didn’t worry about much external stuff beyond the weather.

  The internal space was another matter. I was ruminating. I wondered, when someone becomes a bad person— or is maybe born a bad person— do they lose the ability to see evil in themselves? Could they make an honest self-assessment if they had to? Did self-reflection even matter if the mote in their eye blinded them to their flaws?

  Was I a bad person because I didn’t tell Chuck about the box right away? Or right now? Because that damned box might be why an anthropologist was dead. I hoped not, but had a guilty feeling that it had contributed to this mess.

  Chuck must have been ruminating along the same lines. He began talking as we toiled up another slope, telling me about someone at work named Brian O’Shay who had been the one to alert the Russians to the downed plane, and about two men— like Dark Glasses— who had been following him ever since. He told me what had happened to him at the office, the disappearance of his boss, the virtual demotion to phone operator of a snitch line, and as I heard the pain and anger— and guilt— I realized how really enormous our debt to this man was.

  Though I didn’t bring up the box, I did tell him— without names, dates or places— an abbreviated version of what had made me a fugitive. I was breathing hard by the end of the story, a combination of physical and mental distress.

  He listened without interrupting.

  “You were only seventeen?” There was no judgment in his voice.

  “Yes, and the daughter of a man with no friends and who had been in all kinds of trouble with all kinds of law. That would include the IRS and Child Protective Services and loan sharks, who have their own kinds of rules. Turning to my father was out of the question— even if I had known where he was. My mother and grandparents were dead.” I took a few deep breaths as we rested on the ridge, willing myself to serenity. “I had my passport and a little money. I just ran for the border.”

  “You ran back home.”

  “I ran to McIntyre’s Gulch. I didn’t have a home then. I was a gypsy, but I had this idea of a home.” Culled from a brief paragraph in a travel magazine. I didn’t want to explain any more. Chuck sensed this and didn’t press. “They took me in, bec
ame my family. Just like they have taken in other folk, people who have nowhere left to run.”

  “So, basically, you’re saying that the whole town has very good reason to want all of us gone.”

  Was he suggesting we had reason enough to murder Dark Glasses?

  “Not you,” I said, appalled at where this might be trending. “But the divers and reporters, yes. Definitely. That doesn’t mean we killed the skulker. Or the anthropologist.”

  “Of course not.” He sounded so matter-of-fact that my unease disappeared.

  “Now that we know the government isn’t just looking for money we— we’ll have to have a meeting, figure out something.”

  Like giving the box back to Chuck, or else opening it and finding out what the hell the threat really was.

  Chuck was staring at me. I knew I couldn’t be blushing because I was already red with exertion.

  “A meeting?”

  “We decide everything major by caucus,” I explained and Chuck started to smile.

  “Does anything ever get decided?” he asked.

  “Eventually. My point is, there were a lot of ice-fisherman out on the lake after the explosion. That’s why the divers aren’t finding much gold. And by the way, no one will give the gold back— I’m just warning you.” Chuck nodded, still half-smiling. “But maybe the fishermen found something else out there. Or saw something that they didn’t bother with retrieving because it wasn’t jewelry or money. Perhaps we can find whatever it is that the divers are looking for.”

  Probably we already had found it. I hated lying to Chuck.

  “That would be good, if it could be arranged for the divers to find whatever they’re looking for.”

  “You wouldn’t want to ‘find’ it? Maybe get the reward for being a hero?” I asked.

  “Hell no. Sorry. Didn’t mean to swear.” He ducked his head, wiping rain off of his face. He looked very tired. “I don’t want any more attention focused on me. Let them go on thinking I’m a regulation-quoting idiot. The sooner I drop off their radar, the better it will be for all of us.”

  I wondered if Chuck was thinking about disappearing. Not that day. Not even soon, since he needed watchful eyes to turn in other directions. But maybe someday. I pushed the exciting thought away and concentrated on the current threat.

  Okay then. I guess I didn’t need to worry about giving the box to Chuck. But what then?

  Chapter 8

  I hoped my eyes weren’t really bugging out from exertion, but even Chuck was beginning to look exhausted when we met up with Wendell and Old Thunder. They took over our burden without comment.

  “Bear attack?” Wendell asked. He didn’t look inside the body bag.

  “Oh yeah,” I said, wringing out my hair. The rain was taking a breather, but it didn’t matter. We were all sodden. “Just like the other one. Only more so.”

  Wendell touched my face briefly, a gesture of comfort which I know Chuck saw. Wendell and I had been involved once and were still friends, but I didn’t feel like explaining this to The Mountie.

  “Father White is in town for bingo night,” Wendell said.

  I sighed. With half the town avoiding the reporters and divers, we would be shy on numbers and this could lead to questions.

  “We told him about the bear attacks and that people outside of town might not be coming in tonight. He was distressed. He is talking about paying visits to those living outside of town.”

  “Heaven help us. You discouraged this, right?” Father White was a nice man, but we didn’t need him getting involved in this mess.

  “Firmly.”

  “I hope you like bingo,” I said to Chuck.

  “Um. I’ve never played.” It might have been my imagination but Chuck seemed a little stiff now that Wendell was there.

  “It isn’t hard,” I assured him. I didn’t mention that it wasn’t particularly challenging either.

  “Fiddling Thomas will be there,” Old Thunder said. “We will have a cheilidh after. Big John will break out the hard cider. It will be enjoyable.”

  “Kay-lee?” Chuck asked.

  “Music and dancing,” I explained, then turned to Old Thunder. “Have the divers been asked?”

  “Yes. And they are coming.”

  “I suppose that’s best, though they may not be in a mood for partying when they hear about Smith. We need to have a meeting soon though, if we can manage it. Chuck has some ideas about what the divers are after and maybe we can help.” Help get rid of them.

  Old Thunder and Wendell exchanged a quick look. They knew what I was talking about and also that we couldn’t discuss it openly. The collusion bothered me and I hoped Chuck didn’t notice the silent communication and misread it. Or read it correctly.

  * * *

  We were exhausted and in no mood for socializing after our day in the wet playing pall-bearer, but a change of clothes and some sweet tea gave us the energy to walk down to the town hall with smiles on our faces. After all, we were playing a scene, staged as carefully as any theatrical production. The dialogue was improvisational but we all knew what message we needed to convey to our audience.

  The Flowers was wearing a sundress and a light sweater and Big John was in his kilt. Fiddling Thomas and Little Davey also wore their kilts and soon the hall began to look and feel festive. Sasha would not be singing. He had a tuneless bellow that could herniate eardrums, but he was surprisingly light on his feet.

  The divers came in a group, looking a bit ill at ease. Their names were Ronald Paulson, Avery Andrews and Douglas Baxter. They seemed like nice guys but I wished hernias on all of them. Nothing fatal, nothing permanent. Just something to make them get out of town for the rest of the summer. It seemed to me that we had entered a kind of death spiral in the last few days and the only way to escape it was to rid ourselves of government attention as quickly as possible. Maybe in another decade we would again just be a dusty footnote in some forgotten file.

  The Calamined reporters, who arrived a moment later, were Clarence and Donald something. I didn’t get their last names. They were busy taking in the room which is very normal. I smiled a little when I thought about where they had been staying. Wendell’s décor ran to antler tables and moose-jaw lamps. Between their rustic surrounding and the mosquito bites, they had to be anxious to leave.

  “You look very nice,” Chuck said, bringing me a cup of punch. It hadn’t been laced yet.

  “Thank you. You don’t look bad yourself.” Chuck was attractive in his subdued plaid shirt and khaki slacks. Though seeming very gentle and normal in these surroundings, I was aware that he was possibly quite dangerous in the long term, two rarely overlapping categories that I avoid in the men I see. Still I found myself smiling at him and feeling a little excited maybe because he was forbidden fruit.

  I was especially glad that I had chosen to wear my one skirt when The Braids also turned up in a square-dance dress. We were going to be dancing. That is the only reason that one would wear a dress in The Gulch.

  People had also decided to have a potlatch and one of the side tables was soon covered in molded salads and baked beans and traditional funeral foods. It occurred to me that we were having a combination wake and goodbye party. Without the bodies and bon voyage banners, of course.

  The Bones and Linda Skywater arrived soon after us. The doctor was looking serious but wearing a nice tan. Maybe he hadn’t been on a week-long debauch. Linda had a large bowl of corn soup and a dish of squirrel, which is always a favorite at gatherings.

  We played bingo first and it turned out that Chuck was a cut-throat player once his instincts were aroused. He and Madge Brightwater were locked in tight competition until the end of the game. They were pretty even with their loot, and Father White looked pleased with his cut, which he said was going to help repair the church bus.

  Father White had no objection to music and even had his penny whistle with him so that he could join Fiddling Thomas and Little Davey who played the boudran.

 
; Chuck was shy about dancing, but it turned out that he had a pleasant baritone voice, and there was genuine applause when he sang Loch Lomond and then Mrs. Fogarty’s Christmas Cake.

  Though I sought out Big John and The Flowers between reels, and explained very quickly and softly what Chuck had told me, along with my own suspicions about the black box, I found myself watching The Mountie with a high degree of fascination. The town had unbent for the evening and Chuck was also in the mood to be pleased, so he was visiting with people in a relaxed way that was startling different than his first visit. He and Sasha even managed to find something to laugh about.

  I didn’t think Chuck’s I.Q. had failed him though, and I was betting he was paying close attention to everything that was being said. Officially, he was signing on to the bear attack story. Unofficially, we all knew better. The hell of it was that I just could not imagine any of my neighbors killing either the anthropologist or Dark Glasses. So who then? The reporters? The divers? An unknown madman who left no sign of his presence except dead bodies?

  I was glad to see that the divers and reporters were being welcomed and urged to eat and drink. There had been a real separation of town and State until this point. Understandable, of course, but now it seemed wise to get them on our side. Chuck’s affability helped by setting a good example for the other outsiders. I hoped that they would go home after this and write up reports and stories about how open and friendly and cooperative we were. The more we were seen as simple, salt-of-the-earth people, the safer we would be.

  It did raise the question if they knew the truth about who and what we really were, would they think us eccentric, or insane? Probably they would just see us as criminals. But I have always thought of The Gulch as a sort of living legacy of the founders’ divine madness.