Points West (A Butterscotch Jones Mystery Book 5) (9 page)

“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.”

“I see,” Desoto said slowly. “But this isn’t—” He stopped.
“I was going to say that this isn’t my business, but obviously you think it
is.”

“This officer was more than just crooked. He was a traitor.
Rumor has it that he had dealings with drug dealers, the Russian mafia, the
CIA—basically anyone who would pay him.” It pained Chuck to say this. He tried
to hide his disgust, but he knew that Desoto saw through his guise of
indifference. “He was eventually caught and the higher-ups in government
decided to use him to pass misinformation to his various employers instead of
prosecuting him. This would have scared a normal person, but I don’t think
Brian was normal.”

“Is it his hand that’s having the funeral?”

“No. Brian is still more or less intact. He would be at the
bottom of a ravine somewhere except for a couple of matters.” The Mountie was
aware of Butterscotch’s surprised glance. He hadn’t known that he was going to
be completely open about what happened, but it felt like the right thing to do.
“First, he has fresh needle tracks on his body and he wasn’t a drug user or a
diabetic. Secondly, the hand belonged to a sometimes girlfriend of his who
worked for a drug company in their immunology lab. The woman—Janet Dee—was lying
in wait for Brian and shot him between here and Seven Forks for reasons
unknown—“

“But easily guessed given Brian’s past,” Butterscotch added.

“It wasn’t an immediately fatal shot and Brian ended up
killing her before she got off another. He left her in the forest. Bears got to
her body before we did and all we recovered was a hand and her work badge.”

“Mean bears,” Desoto commented.

“Yes, unseasonably so,” Butterscotch added, setting some
soda water in front of the agent. “We don’t know why the bears are out of their
dens. But since they are, they’re hungry and there isn’t much to eat. They
haven’t come into town but everyone needs to be careful when outside.”

Desoto shuddered.

“Do you know why this Brian was coming to the Gulch? Was he
a friend?” Desoto asked.

“Not hardly
,” Chuck said. “And
Brian didn’t pack when he came up. It looks like a spontaneous decision to flee
from someone or something. He bought a heavy coat at a department store and
then blackmailed another pilot to fly him into Seven Forks. The pilot wouldn’t
take him all the way to McIntyre’s Gulch.”

“Too bad he didn’t fly with Danny McIntyre.”

“He couldn’t. Danny was already flying Brian’s killer into
town. She used an alias.”

Desoto grunted.

“So premeditated murder.”

“Probably.
Or a
willingness to use murder as a last resort.
Danny also flew in another
agent the next day. He is calling himself Mr. Smith—the same alias Brian used
on his flight. It’s the same alias all agents to the Gulch have used. I am
afraid that my government hasn’t hired very original thinkers. The agent is
still in Seven Forks, unable to rent a vehicle to get here. I don’t know how
long he can be kept away though.”

There was a silence.

“Why call me?” Desoto asked.

“You’ve played straight with us in the past. And Brian had so
many masters that I don’t know whom to trust. Even if I find someone honest, I
can’t see any way to turn in this information without it leading back to the
Gulch.”

“And you can’t have that?” Desoto’s voice was neutral.

“We can’t have that.”

He wanted to ask, but didn’t. Again, Chuck approved.

“And you think there is important stuff here in these
files?”

“I think that this was Brian’s insurance policy, his
potential blackmail database when he decided to retire to some country that doesn’t
have an extradition treaty with Canada. At least half of it is, and someone
needs to know who’s dirty in the government and who else might be for sale.”
Desoto grunted again. “The other part has chemical formulas. Maybe they’re
nothing—a new pain killer or antifungal cream. But maybe, given Brian’s choice
of employers, it’s something worse. I think we have to know which it is.”

Desoto sat back in his chair. He didn’t like this idea at
all.

“I noticed a large burned area as we were flying in. Did you
have a fire?”

“In a manner of speaking.”
Chuck
hesitated.

“Some of the big kids were playing with dynamite,”
Butterscotch said, sparing him the task of admitting it was his father who had
nearly blown up the town.

“Speaking of vehicles.
Will I be
able to rent something in Seven Forks when I leave? I’m not flying with that
maniac ever again. I’ve contributed a lot to my 401K and I want to collect my
pension.”

“Something can be arranged. We’ll just have to make sure Mr.
Smith isn’t aware of you.”

“Okay then. I think I can help. Do you want me to take the
stick, or shall we copy the files?”

“Take the stick.”

“But later,” Butterscotch said. “We need to get ready for
the funeral.”

Desoto looked surprised.

“You really want me to come?”

“Why not?
It will be culturally
enriching,” Butterscotch assured him with maybe a tiny touch of malice. “And
there is no reason you can’t have a little fun while you’re here.”

Desoto looked skeptical.

“Seriously.
We send people off in
fine style. I think every house in town has its own still.”

Once more Mountie Charles Goodhead found himself sitting
alone in the back of the room watching as the redheaded citizens of McIntyre’s
Gulch filed into the building. This time the meeting place was the town
community hall which also served as the church on Sundays and was therefore the
most logical location to hold the funeral for the hand. As was the case when
bears were active, the attendees brought firearms with them and in all other
ways acted as if they were anywhere but in the town’s place of worship. They
tended to gather in small groups to discuss the local news and laugh over rude
jokes, then saunter round the place like restless caribou anxious to get out
and eat hay while the sun shines, his father included. Horace was looking and
sounding more like a
Gulcher
every day, even using
the odd Gaelic greeting.

The Mountie exchanged welcoming nods with everyone he knew,
which was getting on toward everyone. He was even introduced to Denny the
Diesel who was done riding the porcelain throne after the gastrointestinal
propellant produced by Big John’s latest house special.

While Butterscotch had left him alone in the back of the
room to go to the Lonesome Moose to help the Flowers prepare for the
post-funeral feast, she’d left her special guest, Agent Desoto, sitting alone
in the front of the room. The agent had said that he should be in attendance to
assure
himself
that the remains were disposed of
properly, but it was said tongue in cheek.

Whatever the reason that
Butterscotch wanted him there, Chuck certainly didn’t want to have anything to
do with the man in black from south of the border.
It
had taken the
Gulchers
long enough to accept him. He
didn’t want to jeopardize his hard-won place of trust in the community. Chuck
enjoyed watching the locals eye the agent suspiciously, remembering just how
cold their regard for a stranger could feel. Desoto sat stoically ignoring the
glares and Gaelic insults.

Of particular interest to Chuck were the two preachers
sitting at the head of the room behind the pulpit.
Butterscotch had provided the backstory on
their attendance before leaving the gathering. Somehow, the Presbyterian
minister, John
McNab
, and the priest, Father White,
had both gotten word of the funeral and had both insisted on conducting the
rites. Though neither knew the faith of the dearly departed, they were sure the
deceased was headed straight to hell if they didn’t have a hand themselves in
guiding the lone appendage on its way into the afterlife.