Read Online Points West (A Butterscotch Jones Mystery Book 5) by Melanie Jackson - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Melanie Jackson
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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?
Chapter 12
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
“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?
Chapter 12
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
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