Page 22 of Scout’s Honor

The wolf stepped into the tree line and Bonhi lost sight of it, but then she heard a man’s voice, coming from where the wolf had been, carrying over the still air.

“Hey, sweetheart. How are you feeling?”

Bonhi could swear she knew that voice…

“Let me finish my rounds and then I’ll pick that up for you. I’ll be home in thirty minutes.”

She did know that voice. It was Jameson Montreat, and that meant she knew who he’d been talking to—Cora, his wife. They’d been clients of hers. Bonhi listened intently, trying to think of how to explain to Jameson why she was under this bush, if he came her way, and also wondering if he’d seen the White Wolf of Nantahala. He was right there where the wolf had entered the trees, but he hadn’t mentioned it to Cora.

Bonhi froze, holding her breath. The white wolf was back. It loped around the water, then disappeared into the trees.

Phew. Bonhi blew out her breath and crawled out from under the bush and continued around Cove Springs, down a trail, up a hill and then down the other side, with trees all around, and still no bird-song or buzzing insects.

The trail ended at a small meadow, and there was the cabin, right in the center. It was adorable—tiny and cozy and rustic, made entirely of thick stones and mortar with a window box full of pink geraniums, still blooming, even though it was autumn. Behind the cabin rose a single tree with white bark and pink leaves.

Bonhi pulled out her phone and took pictures, walking around the cabin to capture it and the strange tree from all angles. The cabin dated back to the 1850s, but it looked new.

She tried the door. It was locked, but a hum coursed through her hand, and the lock disengaged with a click. Bonhi tried the door again. It opened easily.

“Hello?” she called.

No answer. She stepped over the threshold. The door swung closed behind her, leaving her standing in one big room that appeared bigger on the inside than it had outside. At the far wall was a massive bed, with a pink blanket covering it, and a mountain of pink pillows. An antique desk and stool were nearby. Rows of antlers hung on the wall. Rustic spoons sat in a container near whisks and spatulas on a rough-hewn wooden table near a wood cook stove.

Vernon had been certain the cabin was locked up tight and so she hadn’t gotten permission to enter… but she moved deeper inside anyway, feeling compelled. She drifted to the antique desk and opened several drawers, where she found feathered quills and ink pots next to ballpoint pens, sticks of old-fashioned sealing wax next to scissors and a stapler, plus flint and steel stored with matches and a cheap butane fireplace lighter. It was like time and progress had moved through this cabin differently than the rest of the world, adding, but never taking away.

She tried the bottom drawer. This one was full of papers. At the top was a receipt signed by Vernon, showing he’d purchased a new wood burning stove almost a year ago. Under that she found a stack of papers that took several minutes to go through. Deeper in the drawer, the papers got older, crisper, brown around the edges. There were a few old envelopes, fat with letters. Bonhi passed them by. Right at the bottom of the stack, so brown it looked tea-stained, Bonhi found something good—a deed, but not like any deed Bonhi had ever seen before. It was dated the year 1919 and printed on fine linen paper with both the American flag and an official-looking seal gracing the header.

She read through the deed. It stated that the federal government did hereby, upon the creation of the Nantahala National Forest, gift this land and its structures to a man named, ‘Maximus Veleno.’ The land would belong to Veleno and his descendants for as long as the cabin stayed standing, at which time possession of the land would revert to the government, with rights to anything left behind. It looked legitimate and the dates all matched history. If Bonhi could link this Veleno guy to Vernon’s family, he might have a legal leg to stand on. Excited, Bonhi took several pictures of the deed, then returned everything where she’d found it.

She stood, intending to leave, but on the back of the door was something that knocked the breath out of her. It was a driftwood sculpture, circular and flat, the size and shape of a wreath, with spiraling dark arms of wood reaching out all around it. Weapons hung from the sculpture by short leather loops: knives, spears, even a hatchet made of some brittle, metallic material like fool’s gold.

Bonhi put a hand to her throat and drifted that way, examining everything. In the center of the weapon-wreath was a leather strap holding a funny metal bottle with bumps and blackened blisters covering the surface. It called to her, wanting her to pick it up and take it with her. Bonhi drifted closer, her hand covering her mouth. She touched the bottle, wanting it. She should just… take it. It wanted to be with her. It wanted her to pick it up and put it in her pocket…

Bonhi snatched her hand back. Of course she wouldn’t take it! Heat flushed her from the inside out, making her feel upset and ready to go. She took a quick picture of the bottle, then she ran out the door so fast she didn’t even shut it.

It slammed shut on its own.

14—Criminal Activity

Bonhi drove her blue Mazda 6 fast down the curves, with thick forest lining the road on both sides, her mind on everything that had happened. She felt energized, and her mind was racing faster than the car. She’d already kicked off the hiking boots and was driving in soft flats.

She reached her office, parked, and went inside, intending to call Vernon and tell him what she’d found, but when she reached her phone, she had a message waiting.

She listened to it. It was Angie, a friend of hers who worked in the courthouse. “Girl, what did you do? Judge Sturn is pissed at you. Watch your back.”

Bonhi erased the message, her mind whirling. Was it because of the delay she’d asked for? Someone knocked on her door and she headed that way. A man stood on the other side of the glass door, lit up by the foyer lights. He was big and broad, with greasy hair and a hostile expression. Even from inside, she could see sweat running down his forehead.

He held a gun, pointed right at Bonhi’s chest.

Bonhi’s heart leapt into her throat and adrenaline spilled into her bloodstream.

She froze, her eyes locked on the gun.

Dallas lay on his bed, hands behind his head, staring at the bunk above him, resting his leg. His phone rang.

“Yeah.”

“It’s Jameson. You want to do a job with me?”