by Karen Harper
Another pause. “Yeah, I can understand why it takes time. Forensic experts want the contents hermetically sealed? Like what contents? Gold coins and papers with donors’ names? More jewelry?” A moment of quiet, then, “That much? Depending on who it all legally belongs to, that could help solve the national debt. And I’d sure like to see those photographs.”
So her initial research about jewelry for the cause had been right, Meg realized. She dared not ask, at least right now, or Bryce might suspect she’d overheard, but later, maybe she could just work it into a conversation.
Not certain if he was done talking, she used and flushed the toilet, then ran water a long time to wash her hands at the sink. When she went out, Bryce was out of bed, readjusting his printed cotton gown, which tied in back. His legs from his knees down protruded. She had to stifle a smile at the sight.
“My turn in there,” he said. He walked past her at a good clip, holding the gown together in back. “Here we are,” he said over his shoulder, “sharing the same lovely room, same bathroom. Again, I promise you better someday. Tell you some of what the Big Man said in a couple of minutes.”
He went in and closed the door.
* * *
While Bryce was in the bathroom—she could hear he was taking a shower—Meg called Suze and talked to her, then to Chip. The trooper on the door, a different one from earlier, knocked and asked if everything was okay, said that he’d be there all night in case Commander Saylor needed anything.
His hair still wet, Bryce emerged in jeans and a T-shirt she recognized as ones she’d brought him. Hospital scuffs barely covered his big bare feet. He sat on the plastic-looking couch next to where she’d parked herself and her bag earlier.
“There’s a new trooper on the door,” she told him. “Just ask for anything you want.”
He grinned. “The trooper said anything I want, or are you adding that?”
She punched his arm. Surely he wasn’t thinking of making a move in here? But she saw him immediately shift to all-business mode. She hoped he was going to tell her what was in the two big boxes from the plane.
“Let me tell you a little about the photographer-author who will be at the lodge when we get back late tomorrow.”
“Oh, you’re definitely getting released?”
“Bet on it. Otherwise, I’ll have to make a break for it. So anyway, Rafe Coffman has worked for the NTSB as a consultant, not full-time. The photographer-author career is not a cover. He really is all that, very talented. Travels a lot but is supposedly coming to stay at the lodge while he works on his new book on Alaska. But don’t let his arty pursuits fool you. I’ve only worked with him once before, and he’s tough. Tough and smart.”
“It takes one to know one.”
“Sweetheart, I’m not sorry we met and got thrown together, but I’m sorry it had to be like this.” He took her hand in his unbandaged one. She saw he’d covered his injured hand with a plastic sack for his shower and had forgotten to take it off. Shaking his head, he pulled it off and tossed it aside.
He went on, “At times I think I should stay as far away from you as I can for safety’s sake, but Rafe and I can watch the lodge for trouble, including that weird Bill Getz and maybe even the mayor and his antique jewelry store contact, Melissa, you told me about over our elegant dinner tonight. It’s obvious someone local must have been waiting for the cargo on that plane. I think the crash was probably not some sort of sabotage but a malfunction or pilot error—but that’s only a guess at this point.”
“I thought about Melissa being the recipient or at least the keeper of the jewelry part of the cargo, but that’s a long shot,” she admitted. “And the mayor? I can’t think how or why. In Falls Lake, he’s a big man—pardon that description—but surely not in the East or the South of the US, wherever that jewelry has been for decades, even centuries.”
“Since the engine and mechanics of the plane may not have been damaged in the crash landing, we could have checked things when the plane was hauled up in the spring. Maybe the engine acted up and the poor guy couldn’t handle a decent skid landing on the ice, but now we may never know. But we may know the pilot’s identity soon since they have his DNA and are going to finally publicize the crash in the media with Rafe’s sketch of his face. We’re trying to keep swarms of media from the lodge until we can investigate locally more, so there won’t be a lot of info like that in the article. I’d love to know who, besides White Blanket John Doe, was waiting for that plane.”
“That murder we had near the lodge last summer—we’ve been there, done that with being swarmed by media.”
He tightened his hand on hers. “So here’s hoping for some quiet, sane, personal, safe time for you and me that’s not in a hospital room.”
“Sounds good.”
“Before we head back tomorrow, let’s do two things. I need to check in at the regional office of the NTSB here. Then let’s catch dinner at a decent place. Filet mignon for the lady. And some time where I can watch you in softer lights, and we can talk about the real us.”
She nodded, amazed her voice came out so softly. “All right, Commander.”
He smiled, then tugged her close. She thought he meant for it to be a quick good-night kiss, but it went on, deeper, his tongue dancing with hers. So intimate, so stunning. The way she felt with him, even here, they could have been at a café table in Paris or in the heat of the Caribbean, for she was flying high.
The intensity of her reaction scared her as they slowly broke the kiss.
“And to all a good night,” he whispered. “Right now, ‘Thus do all things conspire against us.’ But I swear to you, I—maybe we—are going to change all that.”
“Promises, promises,” she said, trying to lighten his mood. “Did you get that quote from the Big Man?”
“No, the Big Man isn’t nearly as wise as I am.” He winked, then got up with a quick caress of her cheek. “And speaking of wise things, I need to get some sleep and you do too. The nurses will be popping in soon to read my vitals and give me a couple of meds. I have their entries—their intrusions—timed.”
He headed for his bed, stripped off his shirt and got in with his jeans on. “They’ll probably have a fit that I’m dressed in civic clothes. But I’m taking my shirt off so they can get to my chest and arms for all their diabolical deeds. You know, the doctor was hopefully right, because the buzz in my ears isn’t as constant or as loud.”
“Maybe I’m your good luck charm.”
“Good medicine, that’s what you are. Try to sleep. A lot lies ahead professionally—and personally.”
As she flapped open the blanket she was going to sleep under on the couch, she realized that was one of the most hopeful and romantic things he had ever said.
* * *
Meg sat in the reception room at the National Transportation Safety Board regional offices while Bryce had a meeting. While waiting, she picked up an informational pamphlet evidently meant for the media or employment seekers. A fierce-looking eagle was the emblem on the NTSB logo. If requested, the agency could assist the American military and foreign governments. She read that the NTSB was an independent US government investigative agency, emphasis on independent, existing outside the Executive Office of the President.
Or it was supposed to, she thought, shaking her head but reading on. Career paths in the NTSB included disaster assistance specialists and aviation accident investigators. She wondered if Incident Commander Bryce Saylor was technically either of those.
She tried to mentally sift through all she knew about this case. Proud she had helped him with it, she considered what he’d said about suspecting someone local, namely Bill Getz but also Melissa McKee and even Falls Lake’s illustrious mayor Rand Purvis. Obviously, Bryce had been trained to look at everyone as a possible perp. But if those last two were suspect, he might as well be looking at Steve’s pretend extraterr
estrials, even Chip or her.
She watched the clock on the wall and wished she had gotten more sleep. Bryce had slept as if he had not a care in the world. She had listened to his steady breathing—at least he didn’t snore, even sleeping on his back—and wished her mind would let her body sleep. As he’d said, the nurses kept coming in. Finally, she had slept but plodded through dreams. Not nightmares, at least, for she’d had enough of those lately while awake. Was Bryce her dream man, her second time around love?
She jolted when she heard his voice close. “Megan Metzler, may I have the honor of this dance?” he asked, looking so intense, standing over her in the reception room, where she must have dozed off. “Or if not, let’s just grab a good steak dinner on the way home.”
Home. He’d said home—only a figure of speech, of course.
“I’d be honored. And I’m hungry,” she told him, rising and taking his proffered arm as they went out.
But that fierce eagle armed with weapons in both talons frowned down on them as they left.
* * *
Bryce knew a good restaurant nearby. She wondered if he’d been there with other women. At least he’d had such a busy life that he’d not been married, or so she assumed. Had she assumed too much?
He let her do the driving of the rental car because it hurt him to steer with his cut hand, and he didn’t want to drive one-handed in ice and snow. She was glad to help again, but he was an exacting navigator. She wished she’d packed a dress or better shoes for the restaurant, but people dressed very casual these days. What mattered was who she was with.
“We’d better skip wine and drinks ’til next time,” he told her as they looked over their menus. “You’re driving, and I’d better stay on the wagon until this headache and ear buzz is really a thing of the past.”
“You didn’t tell them you still had a headache. I heard you imply that you were fine.”
“I am fine. Please don’t turn me in. At least I feel fine eating here with you, but when we get back I won’t be fine. I’m going to be a hell-bent maniac to solve this plane wreck and explosions that could have been multiple murders, not to mention grand theft on a historic scale. Now, I promised myself we wouldn’t talk business for an hour except for one thing.”
He stopped talking each time their server appeared. Meg stuck with coffee too and tried not to fill up on the delicious hot bread that came right away.
“So before business is completely off the table,” he went on as they attacked their Caesar salads, “let me fill you in a bit more about Rafe. His real first name is Raphael. He’s half Italian, lived all over the world for his NTSB and creative work. Those great oil paintings your sister did for the lodge walls—he’ll appreciate those.”
“Does he have a family with all that moving around?”
“Is he married, do you mean?”
“No, that’s not what I mean—well, maybe a little.”
“No, he’s not married, and I plead guilty to the same.”
Meg had to laugh, nearly choking on a crouton.
“Hey, careful,” he said.
“Oh, I’ve given up on being careful.” She took a drink of water. “I’m with you.”
“I deserve that. I was almost married once to the supposed girl of my dreams, but it didn’t work out. The dream could have turned to a nightmare. I see now it was for the best.”
“Because she would not have been happy you were gone so much—and on dangerous duty?”
“Because then the two of us—you and me—wouldn’t have been a possibility. I want you to know, since you’ve seen up close and personal how damned dangerous my line of work can be, that you can opt out of it, and of me, if you want, at any time, though I’d fight hard not to let that happen.”
“Hard to opt out now. I feel—involved.”
“I’ve weighed decamping to somewhere else nearby the lodge but I think it will be better guarded if I’m there—Rafe now too.”
“No, I mean hard to do now since I’ve come to—to care for you. I’m grateful you’ve been so good to Chip—promising soccer lessons and all that.”
“There is a net, metal frame and two soccer balls en route to the lodge, via Amazon. I just hope we can clear enough snow off that back patio and lawn—and that Rafe can watch those woods while I teach Chip a few things. In better weather, better times...”
He put his fork down and reached across the table to gently clasp her wrist. “Meg, my feelings for you—I think some mutual—complicate things, but we can find time to be together. You’ve seen the stakes are high, but anything worth having and keeping and treasuring is obviously worth fighting for. I just don’t want anyone at the lodge to get hurt, so forgive me if I get pushy.”
“I can be that way—push back too.”
“I see our food’s coming,” he told her, loosing her wrist and sitting back. “And, I hope, a lot more is coming than that for us, sweetheart.”
He’d called her that at least three times, and it touched her, thrilled her.
“No problem with who gets what,” their server said, “since you both want the same. I’m sure you will love it.”
“I’m sure we will,” Bryce said and winked at Meg.
Once again, she could have flown.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
It was like old home week at the lodge for Bryce, when they got in around nine that Friday evening. Since Chip had no school tomorrow, he was still up to greet them. He hugged not only Meg but Bryce, which really touched him. Suze was beaming to have them all back. Or maybe that smile was on her face partly because she’d just checked Rafe into the lodge and had seen all his art and photo equipment coming in the door—another artist.
Rafe high-fived Bryce, and he introduced him all around as a friend who was here to work on his book. Bryce had kidded Rafe more than once that he looked like Superman in disguise: Clark Kent with dark-rimmed glasses but one hell of a physique, a man living an arty life on the outside who could also explode in physical confrontations if needed.
“Bryce recommended this place as great—scenic,” Rafe said with a big smile Suze’s way. “I may even do some ice or snow sculptures outside to include in my photos if that’s all right. The working title for the book is Wild Winter Alaska.”
“It’s been that way around here for sure,” Suze said. “Hopefully, things will calm down between now and Christmas.”
Don’t bet on it, Bryce thought. Despite his worries about this case, he wouldn’t mind staying here over the holidays. Or maybe he could talk Meg—Chip too, of course—into visiting his home in Juneau.
But he knew to kiss such dreams goodbye unless he could find who was behind this—in more ways than one—historic heist. As soon as the morning news hit tomorrow, he was hoping Rafe’s sketch of the dead pilot would pay off with new information to get this case jolted to life again.
He noted Bill Getz, with a stack of magazines in his hands, was leaning against the wall, just watching and listening.
* * *
Bryce sat in Rafe’s room later that evening while his friend unpacked. He filled Rafe in about his plans to investigate several local individuals, like Bill Getz for one, since he had no idea how else to proceed unless Rafe’s sketch of the dead pilot helped identify him.
“The Big Man didn’t want me to keep the original drawing,” Rafe told Bryce. “He wanted it, so I faxed it to him and destroyed my copy as ordered. However, I still have the prelim sketch I did first,” he added with a tight grin. “Got to keep some souvenir from spending a half hour drawing a corpse in the morgue.”
“We all break the Big Man’s rules, don’t we?”
“That’s the name of the game. That’s the way of it in DC anyway.”
“If the Big Man was FBI, he could put the pilot’s face on a post office Wanted poster. Not exactly wanted but wanted to be ID’d.”
&nbs
p; Rafe finally quit rummaging around in the canvas case that held his work supplies. He fished out a folded piece of paper he handed to Bryce.
“Suzanne said I could use her studio area to store things, that there’s an extra table there too,” Rafe said. “She’s shy about letting me see what she’s been working on, but I can tell from her oil paintings on the walls in the common room that she’s talented. So Meg’s her younger sister and a widow?”
“They’re actually twins, but you’re right,” Bryce said, opening the folded paper. “And the first woman in a long time I’ve felt serious about, despite all that’s going on.”
Bryce glanced down at the sketch. “Yeah, that’s him. Him without that death stare and not coated with ice. Rafe, he was frozen down there with both hands raised as if—as if...”
“Praying or asking a question? Like how did this happen to me?”
“I was thinking,” Bryce said, still staring at the very good sketch, “it was like he was conducting an orchestra. Or like he was the victim in a robbery with his hands up.”
“Yeah, a robbery of his plane and life. But it’s doubtful he’s a thief of that treasure. As for looking like he was asking questions—more like he was the one who we wish could answer them.”
* * *
Saturday morning, Bryce drove a snowmobile into town to get an Anchorage newspaper at the lone coffee shop, though Josh always brought several papers to the lodge later when he came to work. He just couldn’t wait to get going on what he hoped was a new phase of this case.
And he hoped that included somehow casing Bill Getz’s place, because the guy was really getting on his nerves, though he’d be a too-blatant, obvious spy. Maybe the eccentric loner was just curious, living his life through other people’s things and events. Bryce knew he couldn’t just slam him into the wall and demand answers like he wanted to next time he saw him lurking and staring. He might learn something but also give too much away. No, he had to see what the guy had in his own house, even if he had to break and enter. He’d had permission to do that before in a dangerous case and probably needed it now again.