Gone South (A Butterscotch Jones Mystery Book 3) (2 page)

The Mountie made a last check of the food and retired to his bedroom to dress.
Looking at his bed, which he had made for the first time in weeks, using clean sheets even, he had to smile at the rose petals he’d thought to sprinkle over the comforter.
He ventured to the closet to unwrap his dress uniform, fresh from the cleaners.
He hadn’t worn the bright red tunic since a funeral for a comrade on the force.
He hoped that it still fit.

He’d buttoned the last gold button and even donned his hat before admiring his dashing appearance in the mirror of his bathroom.

This was a first. Butterscotch never left the Gulch. He wanted everything to be special for her visit.

Chapter 2

My flight was uneventful
, though I did some praying when I saw the roll of duct tape on the passenger’s se
at
. The Wings was kind enough to get me to Winnipeg without any stunt
flying or smart remarks once he heard that my father was badly hurt and I was on my way to see him. He even offered me the loan of his car.
The
Wings kept a car in the city for the rare occasion when he had to stay over for business. At home, he drives a manly truck, meaning it is rusty with ripped upholstery and is without power
steering. It is noticeable out in front of the pub because tourists aren’t exactly clogging our roads and the thing had more colors than a calico cat. In fact, two cars on the one paved street and we have a traffic jam, but this doesn’t negate my point about the truck being an ey
esore. Auto maintenance wasn’t t
he Wing
s
’ thing. Though sober when he flew, there was every chance that he was under the influence when he wasn’t in the air and his truck reflected this.

We worry about drunk drivers, of course, but not until their breath is
nearing
eighty proof. There isn’t much to hit out in
t
he Gulch except trees and rocks. You wanna kill your truck
on a slab of rock
? That’s fine by most Gulchers, as long as you don’t do it by running over their cabins
on the way
. I wanted to think that in the city
Danny
was more circumspect, but figured he probably still had a memorable vehicle. That wasn’t good when you were trying to avoid attention. Anyway, if I
was
stopped at the border, I didn’t want to implicate him in my troubles, so I said no thanks.

I’d had to leave a message on Chuck’s machine, but he had obviously gotten home in time to get the
dispatch
and meet me at the airport. His familiar face
at the side of the runway
was a relief for a couple of reasons. I rarely drive these days and didn’t want to rent a car.
I had ID but with everything computerized these days, they might catch on to it being fake.
A taxi to the States would also have been expensive and too memorable. I’m sure there were people who took taxis to the border, but probably not many.

But i
t was great to see Chuck for another reason. Being in the city had me disturbed.
It was stranger in a strange land syndrome.
It would have been better if Max was there
to keep me company
, but that was just impossible to arrange. Max
doesn’t fly well and
would cause panic
in the city
.
And how the heck would I get him over the border? If he was seen, some gun-happy border patrol agent would probably shoot him. So m
y wolf was staying with the Flowers and had social visits arrange
d
with Wendell and Madge while I was gone. I knew he’d be fine
among friends
, but it felt weird to be without him. At home, Max was my shadow.

“Chuck,” I said
,
giving him a hug
and enjoying his aftershave
. “You look wonderful. You weren’t at
a
funeral, were you?” I asked worriedly as I took in the uniform.

He smoothed his coat, looking a bit uncertain.

“Uh
—
no. Let me help you with that bag.”

I let him take the bag though it was light. I hadn’t packed anything but the basics.

Cities don’t scare most people. Even folks who live in small towns watch enough TV that they know what to expect
when they visit
. But I don’t watch television much and it was all strange and disconcerting. I hadn’t been to Winnipeg in four
years. Things had changed. In t
he Gulch, nothing changes.

There were more loitering poor than I remembered
—
homeless people, I guessed. This shouldn’t have surprised me
, given the global economy,
but it did. No one is homeless in
t
he Gulch. At least no more homeless than anyone else. A lot of us lived there because we were displaced persons of one persuasion or another. Still, we all had shelter. And food, though it was plain and we often had to go out and hunt it down ourselves. There was only one loiterer in town and we kept him off the street when it was cold.
The rest of
us
did no pointless lingering.
There wasn’t time for it.

It also
seemed
odd that everything in the city was labeled.
We have place names, too, of course. But a
ll the
tall
buildings had
actual
signs and numbers
on them
. Maybe you had to do that when everything looked the same so people didn’t get confused about where they were going, but it felt invasive
, like the government was watching
, marking everyone and everything
. It was all very square and vertical and contained. No one
looked up and
smiled. Even the cement-bound trees that edged the streets looked to be in agony as they were slowly poisoned by traffic fumes and strangled with concrete.

The city smelled of cars. Many, many cars, and it was frightfully noisy. The blend of engines and human voices grated on my ears. It would be even worse in
t
he States
and I had a moment of hesitation about trying to go on
with my plan
.

And
weirdest of all,
night never really fell. It stayed bright and I couldn’t see the stars. The moon was probably there
somewhere
but hidden by buildings. I no longer knew which way was north. I was torn equally between the impulses to hide
at Chuck’s
and to run back home and hope that no one else found me
there
.

“I take it this isn’t a romantic visit,” Chuck said finally. We had been very quiet since leaving the airport.

Forced out of my brooding, I
relaxed my grip on the car door and really
looked at him. He was in dress uniform and aftershave. It occurred to me that he might have thought that this was a booty call.

“I’m so sorry. I didn’t want to say much on the phone.”

Chuck nodded. We weren’t certain if his phone was being tapped. The official surveillance seemed to have dropped off after the explosion of the black box, but we couldn’t be certain that we were completely in the clear.

“It’s my father. He’s in the hospital in Duluth. He was hit by a car. Probably deliberately,” I added, though neither my father nor the nurse had said this.
“He may die from his injuries.”

Whatever Chuck had been expecting me to say, it wasn’t this.

“I’m so sorry,” Chuck
answered at once
and squeezed my knee briefly. He was too good a driver to leave
his
hands off the wheel for too long though.

“I hope I haven’t ruined any plans you have for tonight.”

“No, not at all.”

But I thought maybe he was lying and began to feel bad.

We pulled into the small underground parking lot below the condo where he lived and then took an elevator up to the second floor. The walls were
off-
white, the carpet tan.
There was no art
in the hallway
, no architectural oddities.
It had no personality
at all
, not even inside
.
The Mountie lived here
most of the time
, I just couldn’t understand how.
Chuck had a lot of personality.
He had adapted so well to the weirdness of
t
he Gulch that I had started thinking of him as a resident.

But Chuck had obviously made an effort to spruce things up for me. There were daisies in a jar and candles on the small dining table. I could smell what I guessed was lasagna in the oven.

“This is great,” I said and meant it.

Chuck poured me a little wine and then began to dress a salad. I don’t usually drink but he probably figured
—
rightly
—
that this might be one of those occasions when a little liquor was appropriate.

“Let’s have some dinner,” Chuck said. “Then you can tell me what I can do to help.
You want to try and see him
, I take it
?
”

I let out a long breath that was pure relief. It seemed like I had been holding the fear in since the Flowers had come to fetch me to the phone at the Lonesome Moose.

Chuck served dinner and I even ate a bit of it, remembering to compliment him on the food and thank him for the flowers.

I had seen Chuck whisk away a little box by my plate and put it in his pocket. Part of me was curious about its contents, but a larger part of me was just as happy not to be distracted by a gift that might have large emotional strings attached to it. All my strings were otherwise occupied.

“Tell me everything,” he said as I poured myself a little more wine. And I did.

To his credit, Chuck didn’t gasp, call on the Almighty, or tell me I was nuts. Maybe he knew me too well to be surprised at my request
for aid
. Maybe he was just too shocked to speak. I thought it a kindness to let him digest this news without pressing him for an immediate answer. It was asking a lot to involve himself in my plans. It was asking everything. If I were caught
and they traced me back to him
, at the very least it would cost him his job. He might even go to jail
for conspiring with me
.

I wasn’t contemplating an illegal border crossing because I loved my father. It wasn’t out of filial piety, obligation, curiosity
,
or bravery either. The act was motivated by
well-honed
survival instinct and fueled with barely suppressed hysteria.

The odd part was that
I was doing it because I needed an answer. How the hell had my father found me? It had been a decade since I’d talked to him. Longer.
I had changed my name, left
behind every friend and contact, left
the country even.
But t
here was obviously some trail to me and if he could find it, others could too.
I had to know what ends I’d left loose.
I just had to.

“It’s natural you would want to see your father before it’s too late,” Chuck said at last. He was brimming with sympathy
that I didn’t deserve
.

I began to think that maybe I had made a mistake in coming. Probably I should have kept quiet about my dad’s phone call, but I had been upset and I
’d
had a moment of weakness. Besides, I figured he would know more about how to cross the border than I would. And it wasn’t like I was asking him to come with me. I just needed him to tell me where I could most safely cross
and then give me a lift to the border
.
I would take it from there.

So, did I make up polite fiction for Chuck, or did I tell the truth? For once, truth won.

“I don’t
want
to see my father. I never wanted to see him again.
If he’d been killed I sure wouldn’t
be
heading down for the funeral.
”

Chuck was disturbed by this pronouncement
,
though I have explained my
parental
relationship before. I guess sometimes it’s shocking to say what you really mean when it’s about hating your parent. And even more shocking for others to hear it.
Maybe he had discounted my feelings
, chalked them up to exaggeration
,
since we had been in a stressful situation when I explained my past
.
Chuck wasn’t real close to his dad, but he didn’t loathe him either. Chuck would feel concern and love
if his father were ill
. Certainly he would rush to be at his father’s side if he were in the hospital.