Free Devil's Pass by Sigmund Brouwer

there had been no charges, no conviction.
    â€œI could hassle you,” the guy said, tapping Webb’s passport, “but what matters most is that you have a return ticket. And I think if you were making up a story, it would be a better one than that. If it was important to a dying man, then I’m not going to stop you.”
    The guy had given Webb’s face a final look, then stamped the passport.
    After that, there had been an hour’s wait for the flight to Chicago, then a delay of another hour, then the flight, then two hours in Chicago’s O’Hare Airport, and finally the flight from Chicago to Phoenix. Anyone who thought travel was exciting would have been cured of the illusion by the end of that trip.
    Webb had spent most of his time on the plane listening to old rock music on his iPod, imagining where he’d place his fingers for each new chord.
    He hadn’t reread the letter from his grandpa. Not even once. He didn’t need to have it in front of him at all; he’d memorized every word when he first opened it in a café near the lawyer’s office.
    Webby, I owe an old friend a favor. You’ll find his name and address on the back of this letter. Ticket and passport and bank cards will get you there. Whatever you do for him is no different than helping me. I appreciate it. Here’s what you need to learn: buried secrets cause pain.
    At the lawyer’s office, Webb had wondered what Grandpa had written to his cousins.
    That was their business though. This was his. When he read the letter, he’d noted the date and time on the ticket, and realized the flight left the next morning; Devine must have arranged the flight sometime between the funeral and the reading of the will. Webb didn’t consider for a moment not getting on the airplane. Whatever you do for him is no different than helping me.
    It was simple; Webb would have done anything to help his grandpa. If he needed to leave on short notice with unclear instructions, would he do it? Yes. The old man had been special.
    That meant he’d do the same for Jake Rundell, who lived in a gated community in the northwest part of greater Phoenix, nearly an hour’s drive from the airport.
    The taxi had taken Webb through the gates and down the boulevard lined with palm trees.
    On one side of the boulevard was a sidewalk. On the other side, a fast-flowing creek with ducks.
    In the desert?
    Outside his air-conditioned cab, it had been 110 degrees.
    Ducks, in the desert?
    It hadn’t taken Webb long to figure it out. Gated community. Expensive houses. It was like an oasis. An artificial oasis made by piles of money. He glimpsed a golf course beyond the houses.
    Whoever he was, Mr. Jake Rundell of 2911 Roy Rogers Road, this friend of his grandpa’s, was definitely rich.
    And, as it turned out, definitely dead.

In light of the rising frequency of human/grizzly bear conflicts, the Northwest Territories Department of Fish and Game is advising tourists, hikers and fish-ermen to take extra precautions and keep alert for bears while traveling this summer.
    We advise that people wear noisy little bells on their clothing so as not to startle bears. We also advise everyone to carry pepper spray with them in case of an encounter with a grizzly.
    It is also a good idea to watch out for fresh signs of bear activity. Outdoorsmen should recognize the difference between black bear and grizzly bear dung.
    Black bear dung is smaller and contains lots of berries and squirrel fur.
    Grizzly bear dung has little bells in it and smells like pepper.
    (Joke circulating on the Internet)

SIXTEEN
    NOW
    The helicopter was parked a couple of hundred meters away from the Norman Wells airport building and was far larger than the pretty bubble-topped traffic ’copters Webb was used to seeing in Toronto. Webb always thought traffic ’copters were like smug CEOs in expensive suits, telling their employees what to do but never getting