Jason goes to Canada

Bears and such

    A few of his men joined him at Thad's, a small pub just off the highway. Hauling a corpse proved to be thirsty work.
Ray sat at the bar, nursing his third frosty beer, having guzzled the first two. He felt the wonderful foam rising to his brain and numbing the visions of staring eyes and crooked heads.
Canada's own Shania Twain warbled over the juke, something about boots under beds.
The boys were shooting pool, poorly.
That had the night off, so Rita had the solemn duty of keeping his mug refilled. Ray was absently playing with a bowl of peanuts when Rita's big bosom filled his vision.
"Put a head on ya beer, Ray?"
"Nah, girl. Elizabeth hates when I come home all boozy."
"Hard day?"
She was hinting around at something, like a kitten pawing at a curtain. Word had probably gotten around about Gerald, as word often does in a small town.
He didn't have the patience to draw things out, so he cut right to what she was searching for.
"No suspects yet, Rita."
"Oh, Ray. I would never ask ya aboot your police work."
"I know, dear. I just didn't want you to worry."
He burped softly, Molson's was always a little light in his belly.
Rita leaned in, her impressive knockers laying on the counter.
"Do ya really think it was a man did that to Gerald?"
"I dunno, old girl. The Doc is trying to ascertain that as we speak."
"I only ask, because there are a lotta wild animals out in that area. Bears and such."
He chewed a peanut.
"Eh, I bet I've seen a wound or injury from every animal that walks those woods, from grizzlies to timberwolves, moose, you name it. This was different. There were no scratches, no bites, no signs of struggle. Not like an animal at all. Not a four-legged one anyway."
She shuddered.
"Hard to believe we got somebody around here that could...do such a thing."
"I doubt he's a townie. No worries on that."
"A drifter maybe?"
"Well girl, if he is, I hope he drifts the hell away from this province. Quick."
Shania Twain gave way to Rascal Flatts on the juke. One of the boys knocked the cue ball off the table, laughs followed.
"Don't ya want to catch him?"
Ray patted the chrome .357 on his hip.
"So to speak."
Rita smiled, something in her eyes flickered playfully.
Ray finished his beer.
Ah Rita, in another life I coulda gave those big jugs a run for their money, maybe. He didn't say that of course, only smiling back.
She sighed, and walked to the other end of the bar to pour the deputies another round.
The door swung in, and a group of loggers poured in, stomping the snow from their boots. They looked big, dirty, and thirsty.
They all piled into two corner booths and motioned Rita over impatiently.
"Oh God." she muttered. "Those boys drink like camels."
Over the edge of his glass Ray scanned their faces, not sure what he was looking for. Would a killer stand out? Would he hold eye contact for a beat too long, or avoid it altogether? Would he watch the policemen playing billiards in a wary sort of way?
They all looked pretty tough, but chummy. Long beards, big rough hands, flannel and more flannel.
One of them saw Ray watching them and tipped a nod. Ray returned it.
Surely they know about Gerald, it was in their "neck of the woods" after all.

His deputies grew quiet and watchful, taking too long between shots. None of them knew how to "play it cool".
This, too, did not go unnoticed by the logging crew.
Still, they tore through pitchers of icy beer one after the other. Poor Rita had her hands full.
After a while, when the eyes got redder and the hands got steadier, one of them worked up the nerve to pull up a seat beside Ray.
He was a big boy, like the rest of them, bit more flab than muscle. His eyes were friendly, at least.
He extended a hand, and Ray shook it.  It was as hard as marble.
"Hello. I'm Dwight."
"Ray Ferguson. Pleased to meetcha."
"You guys are Mounties, eh?"
"What gave it away?"
The big fella grinned like a kid.
"Well anyway, listen. We heard aboot what happened in the north woods with that townie fella, and we all wanted ya to know we'll cooperate any way we can."
The other members of his crew were watching the conversation, but pretending not to.
"Glad to hear it. We're still in the preliminary stage, but maybe we'll get to you guys later. Where was your crew working that day, if I may ask?"
"Oh, the Clary place, been stationed there for the last few weeks. It's a big job, lotta hardwood."
Ray frowned. The Clary's land was at least 20 miles away from the scene of the murder.
"You boys seen any strangers around? Maybe at the petrol station near there?"
Dwight scratched his fuzzy beard.
"Nah. We hardly see anybody 'cept old man Clary, 'less we come into toon."
An honest enough answer, but Ray could tell there was something else. He used an old interrogation technique, one where you just stay silent and keep eye contact, usually goading the other party to keep talking.
Dwight leaned in, lowering his voice a notch.
"But hey lissen, the other fellas didn't want me to bring it up, but one of us DID see someone a few night's back, out in the woods."
Ray leaned in, matching his posture, another subliminal technique.
"One of ya. Who?"
"Terry. Terry Oates. They didn't want me to mention it because they didn't believe him, because he's soft in the head and all."
"Soft?"
"Yeah. A big pine landed on him four or five years back, and he ain't fully recovered ya know, up here."
Dwight tapped his temple.
"But you believed him, right Dwight?"
"Yuh. I was one of the first ones he told, and the look on his face, it wasn't something you could pretend. He was spooked."
Ray motioned Rita to fill their glasses, Dwight sucked half the mug down at one go, wiping his lips.
"What did he see?"
"It was a man. It was too dark to tell much about what he looked like, but Terry said he was a big 'un, tall and broad through the shoulders."
"That it?"
"Well. What struck him odd, he said, was the way the man moved. He was just out in those cold, dark woods, walking like a robot from those old sci-fi movies, not swinging his arms or nothing. Just stepping forward, tromp tromp tromp. Acting like he knew exactly where he was going, but at the same time going nowhere, ya see?"
"Not really."
"Guess you hadda see it yourself, I guess. Terry said it was a man alright, but humans don't walk like that. And..."
"And...?"
Dwight finished his beer in another big swallow.
"He said the man suddenly stopped, turning like a machine, staring right AT him. Terry wasn't making no noise, and was hid pretty good behind a copse of bushes, but it's like the tall man knew exactly when to stop and where to look."
"Yuh, that is eery."
"Terry came and got a few of us, but when we got there he was gone. A lotta the fellas gave Terry a hard time, calling him a retard."
Ray chewed his lip, thinking on it.
"Does that help, officer?"
"Oh, yeah sure Dwight. Every little bit of info helps, thanks for confiding in me."
Dwight grinned, sliding off the stool and stretching.
His crew got up too, throwing down wads of cash for the tab and tip.
"Dwight, you boys be careful out there."
"Ah, who would be crazy enough to attack a bunch of beefy hard-asses like us?"
They both laughed, it sounded forced a bit. With another handshake, Dwight and his crew returned to the cold and the snow.
The split second they were gone, Harold quickly came up to him, his big front teeth hanging over his lip.
"Well? What did he say? We got a suspect?"
"Calm down Harold. Nothing new to report."
He admired the enthusiasm from his deputy, but feared it wasn't the protection of lives that interested him, but a ghoulish fascination with the murder. As far as Ray knew, this was the first homicide in the territory in 30 years.
Harold pouted a bit, his small chin sinking even further under his teeth.
Ray clapped him on the back.
"Come on, son. Send those other yahoos home and we'll go check in with the Doc."
He pepped up instantly, his mood renewed.
"Yes sir."
He tipped Rita a five and a wink, and they all strode out together.