Page 9 of Thunder Pass

Nelson giggled, which Gunnar took as a major victory. His nephew was usually so serious, so focused on whatever project had his attention. “Like bugs. That’s funny.”

“Thanks.” Gunnar squeezed his shoulder lightly, feeling real affection for the boy. It felt good to have family around, even if he’d only met Nelson a few weeks ago. For so long it had been just him and his father, and then just him. He’d forgotten what it was like to be around people you were connected to. In fact, he’d always been a little envious of the Chilkoots, despite all their weirdness. At least there were lots of them. “So what’s the real weird thing you found in my computer?”

“You should come and look at it. I can’t really explain it because I don’t know what it is.”

Frank Stetson’s plow truck could wait, Gunnar decided. He wouldn’t need to plow anything until October, late September if they got an early snow dump. He followed Nelson into his back office.

This was where he’d kissed Ruth. Right up against that wall, there. He could just about see her startled gray eyes now. Her lips had parted under his, as if she meant to say something, and instead started kissing him back.

He hadn’t known it was her first kiss until afterwards. It had never crossed his mind that someone around his age might have never kissed anyone before.

“Here.” Nelson swiveled the desktop computer so he could see the screen. “It’s another whole desktop.”

Gunnar frowned at the unfamiliar-looking image on his computer. When he logged on—which hadn’t happened in a while, seeing as it hadn’t been working—he saw swirls of orange and purple. But this screen was an image of what looked like Thunder Pass. “What do you mean? Where did that come from?”

“Does someone else use this computer?”

“No. Well, not anymore. It was my father’s. He left it when he…left.”

Nelson showed no interest in that history. “It must have been his. It’s like another whole computer within your computer,” he explained. “He has his own files, his own apps, photos, all of that, but it’s walled off from anyone who doesn’t have the password.”

“How’d you get into it, then? Never mind,” he said quickly, when it looked like Nelson might launch into an overly technical explanation. “You said it was weird and that you couldn’t explain it. What’s the weird part? He probably just didn’t want anyone else looking at his porn searches or whatever. By the way, if you see anything like that, just shut your eyes, okay? You’re too young.”

Nelson rolled his eyes. “There’s no porn on here. It’s not like that. The weird part is this database he was keeping. It’s a bunch of entries and numbers.”

“Accounts payable or some normal-world shit like that?” Gunnar didn’t run the business like that. He operated on a mix of barter and cash and other methods that might keep him off the IRS’s radar. He did enough aboveboard business that he still needed to pay taxes, but less than he probably should. If some agent wanted to troop all the way out here and audit him, they were welcome to do so.

And then it hit him—“Shit. A second set of books, maybe? Fraud?”

“Maybe. I don’t know.” Nelson shrugged indifferently. “I can’t figure out what it is. Just seemed like you might want to see it.”

“Yeah…thanks, kid. That’s…weird. You’re right.” Gunnar stared down at the columns and rows of numerical entries. They didn’t look like the kind of numbers he saw in his business, but maybe his father used to charge a lot more. Or maybe he’d inflated the numbers. Or had his own system of tracking his payments and expenditures.

With Anthony Amundsen, you never knew. The man was unpredictable. Which was probably a kind way to describe someone who’d disappeared without a word of explanation. The only reason he knew his father was alive was a note that had appeared in the garage a few years ago.

“Hey, you feel like some pancakes?” he asked Nelson. “The Magic Breakfast Bus is back for the summer, and you really haven’t lived until you’ve tasted Billy Jack’s buttermilk pancakes.”

Nelson got that resistant look he wore whenever Gunnar mentioned going outside. “I already had some of the granola my mom left.”

“You can try a bite of mine. Come on, have you ever had pancakes and maple syrup in an old yellow school bus painted like a technicolor sunrise?”

Nelson must have figured there was no point in resisting, so Gunnar put up the “closed” sign and they strolled down Pioneer Road toward the school bus parked on a gravel pad that Gunnar had helped prep for Billy Jack. Gunnar knew about half the people they passed—everyone but the tourists snapping photos with their phones—but he refrained from stopping to introduce everyone to the excruciatingly shy Nelson.

He pointed out the familiar landmarks to the boy: the historic first trapper’s cabin, its roof so thick with moss that it had to be propped up by extra two-by-fours. Granny Apple’s Boarding House, which had begun life as a brothel, and still sported the only wooden shutters in town—no one else bothered with that level of privacy. There was the original hardware store with its tin ceiling and classic bay window storefront. Lila Romanoff lived there now, although she spent most of her time with Bear at The Fang.

Every time an ATV rolled past them, a plume of dust would rise up and Nelson would start coughing. Gunnar shifted positions so that his body would block the worst of the dust. Then Nelson pointed excitedly at a dog riding shotgun with Lasse Ulstrom, perched on the seat as if the human at the wheel was nothing more than a chauffeur. Dust storms forgotten. The magic of Firelight Ridge in action.

He was even more glad he’d dragged Nelson out to the Magic Breakfast Bus when he caught sight of a long blond ponytail that could only belong to Charlie Santa Lucia, sitting at a table in the back.

Wasn’t Charlie some kind of expert hacker familiar with the shady side of the law? Maybe she’d be able to make sense of those numbers in his father’s computer.

At the very least, he could introduce Nelson to someone who spoke his language.

5

In the section of the longhouse set aside for “school,” ten-year-old Noah crossed his arms over his chest and glared at Ruth. “We already learned about multiplication. That’s for babies.”

Ruth cast her eyes to the ceiling and prayed for patience. “If you know it already, then you won’t have any trouble solving these problems.”

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