Chapter 30
Nick arrivedat The Fang around nine. He spotted Bear moving from one customer to the next with a grace that defied his big frame. Bear caught his eye and shook his head ‘no.’
Damnit. He hesitated, wondering if he should just go back to the rental cabin and join Hailey while she watched a video—an actual VHS videotape, which struck her as hilarious. Especially because the only videotape they could get to play was Goonies.
Or he could hang out for a bit and hope that the Russian-ish man showed up. According to Bear, he’d been wearing high-tech outerwear gear, which fit with the other bits of info he and Charlie had gathered.
Bear came over to take his order. “Sorry for the no-show.”
“Do you think he’ll still show up?”
“He might. I told him his next drink was on the house, made up an excuse.”
“Good man.”
Bear jerked his head toward the other end of the bar. “You know, he was talking to Pinky last night. You could see what you can get out of him.”
Pinky Barker had earned his nickname when he’d shot off his own finger while being chased by a bear. The bear had turned out to be a large porcupine. Porcupines didn’t chase people. So Pinky’s story had a few holes, but no one bothered to call him on it.
Nick liked the guy, but he wasn’t the sharpest arrow in the quiver. Pinky loved to ramble on about his favorite topic, sacred geometry. Getting information from him would be like fishing for a tadpole in a whitewater river.
But you never knew, and information-gathering was his job. So he grabbed the Mason jar of beer that Bear brought him, and hitched himself onto the stool next to Pinky. The old man beamed a smile at him.
As expected, Pinky unleashed a torrent of stories about Firelight Ridge and why the place was so special—in terms of sacred geometry. “It’s the lay lines, see,” he kept saying. “We’re the eye of the dragon here. It’s very powerful. That’s why we’re still here, no matter how hard they try to get rid of us.”
It was hard getting in a word edgewise, but Nick eventually managed to steer the conversation to the man from last night.
“You mean the one asking me about the old hardware store?”
A chill went down Nick’s spine. “The one where Lila lives?”
“Well sure, now, but it used to be Bulldog’s. He’s the one who put the plumbing in and made it all fancy.”
Nick was pretty sure neither Lila nor her friends considered the place fancy. But still—it was big news that Bulldog used to live there. “Bulldog…you mean April’s…partner?”
“Ain’t no other Bulldog that I know of.”
“So she lived there too. In the hardware store, with Bulldog.”
“Well, sure. They both lived there and whew boy, did they fight. You could hear their fights up and down Pioneer Boulevard. I had to put earmuffs on, back when I lived in town.” He lowered his voice. “Poor old Bulldog. We found him one winter frozen into a snowbank and half-eaten by wolves. April was all torn up about it. She really loved him.”
“But you said they fought.”
“Yeah, but winters can be tough here. I never could find a woman who wanted to stick.” Pinky shook his head with a frown.
Another scenario was forming in Nick’s mind, one he didn’t like one bit. Had April killed Bulldog? Was someone here to blackmail her about it—maybe that’s what the Chechens were doing?
“Have you ever heard about someone named Vasily?” he asked Pinky.
“Bulldog’s buddy?”
Nick sat up straight. Now things were definitely getting interesting. If Bulldog and Vasily had been friends, that strengthened the suspicion that he was back in Firelight Ridge trying to blackmail April.
“What do you know about Vasily?”
“Came and went, liked to hunt around here, that’s about it. Hasn’t been back in years, but I guess this place would be nothing but bad memories with his buddy gone. Everyone said Bulldog should have waited for Vasily before he went hunting that time. Bulldog knew his way around the wilderness well enough, but even an expert can get lost. Happens more than you know. I was one of the ones who found him. I’ll never forget it.”
“Was there an investigation?”
“Nah, not really. Nothing to go on. Didn’t look like a crime. No one asked me shit, and I was the one that took his body into Blackbear. April got real freaked out after that. Didn’t leave the hardware store hardly at all for the rest of the winter. After that, she went up the mountain and started building that lodge.”
So many questions came to mind, Nick didn’t know where to start.
One big question…why was the Chechen (if it was him) interested in the hardware store?
“What did that man ask about the hardware store?”
“If he could tour it, like it was a museum. Who lived there now so he could ask them.”
“Did you tell him anything?”
“Nah. He’s a stranger. He picked a bad stool to sit on. That’s the stool where Muffin Top had a heart attack. It’s got bad juju, and he sat right down on it. You can’t trust someone like that.”
God love Pinky.
“Do you think there’s any photos around here of Bulldog? Or Vasily, for that matter?”
He wasn’t sure how much any photo would help, over forty years later, but you never knew.
“Sure.” Pinky gestured at the wall behind the bar, where a few vintage photos in old frames were propped on a dusty shelf between ancient tequila bottles and artifacts from the pioneer days, like an old ceramic bread box and a leather pouch in which an early explorer had stored sourdough starter. Hence the nickname “sourdoughs” for old-timers like Pinky.
After he got Bear’s attention, the bar owner slid a photo from one of the frames and handed it to him.
“That’s him,” said Pinky. “Poor old Bulldog.”
The photo showed a hulking young man with a thick beard, wearing a fishing hat and squinting into the sun. He turned the photo over. On the back, someone had written in block letters, Chadwick Tudor III aka Bulldog, Fangtooth Alaska, 1978.
Bulldog was Chadwick Tudor III?
The name Tudor rang a bell. That name was on art collections and libraries through the greater New York area. That certainly fit with what Charlie had learned, that Bulldog and April had both come from the same world of wealth and privilege.
“Can I keep this photo?” he asked Bear, who nodded.
He tucked it into the inner pocket of his jacket. Maybe he could confront April with it and get her to confess to Bulldog’s murder—or at least to being blackmailed about it by Vasily and his arrow-shooting Chechen minions.
“Any pictures of Vasily?” he asked, without much hope. And in fact, there were none—unless the man in the photo from Solomon’s camper was Vasily.
Hopefully Charlie would get that confirmation soon.
Outside,the sun had dipped behind the ridge, but there was still plenty of light in the sky, and brilliantly lit clouds were collecting at the peaks. The rainclouds seemed to dump their rain in the mountains and never made it to the valley. Here in town, it had been a dry spring, and every time a four-wheeler passed by, a trail of dust would envelope everyone nearby. Rain would be a nice change.
He debated heading over to the hardware store to see if Lila was still up. Maybe he could learn more about Bulldog. At the least, he could warn her that a Chechen dude was asking about the place where she lived.
Digging out his phone, to his shock he saw that it was almost ten thirty. Too late to do anything besides go home and watch the end of Goonies with Hailey.
He wouldn’t even text Charlie with an update because she needed her sleep. Would he ever get used to this never-ending daylight?
He yawned deeply. Man, this cold mountain air really knocked a guy out. Or was that due to getting naked with Charlie?
He’d have to put that question to the test as soon as humanly possible.
Just as he was passing The Magic Breakfast Bus, footfalls behind him had him spinning around, just a fraction of a second too late.
A chop to his neck dropped him to the ground just outside The Magic Breakfast Bus. Through the stars dancing in his vision, he swung his legs around, aiming to trip the person who had clocked him. He heard a grunt from his assailant, then came a vicious kick in his ribs. He grabbed onto the leg that had kicked him and rolled over, trying both to unbalance him—or her—and get a better look.
Black watch cap, pale skin, male Gore-Tex hiking clothes, mid-thirties…definitely the Chechen.
“What do you want?” he rasped. He rolled over again to avoid another kick. “Who are you?”
He shielded his head from another hard kick. His upper arm took the brunt of it; he could practically feel the bruise forming.
“Did you shoot those arrows? Did you throw that smoke bomb? Why are you interested in the hardware store?”
A booted foot slammed him into the ground, face down. He saw scrubby grass, gravel, the big tires of the bus. And then his jacket was getting ripped off his body. Painfully, with no regard for his shoulder joints.
Then the man was gone. Along with his jacket and cash. And the photo of Chadwick Tudor, aka Bulldog. Third jacket down, damn it.