Points West (A Butterscotch Jones Mystery Book 5) (8 page)

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.”

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 would 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?

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.”