Steve brought the plane in low and buzzed the small wooden cabin belonging to the man who’d lost his wife to PSP. We flew along the coastline, and I studied the shore for any sign of life. If Craig was still here waiting to be picked up, he most likely would be sitting by a pile of gear stacked on the beach. We flew along the beach for five miles until we came to Uyak Cannery, but there was no sign of Craig or his gear.
“Do you plan to stop at the cannery?”
“No,” Steve said. “They won’t know any more than they told us over the phone, and I don’t want to worry anyone.”
“They’re probably already worried. They can guess we aren’t sightseeing.”
“It would be a waste of time, anyway.” We circled and climbed.
“Now where?” I asked.
“Your guess is as good as mine. I think I’ll try to follow the route Steve would fly from his last pickup point to town.”
“I thought you said he planned to fly around for a while before heading to town.”
“I said that I believed Simms wanted him to take his guests flight-seeing, but Bill had a hot date tonight, and I know he wanted to get back to town as soon as possible. If no one complained, I’m sure he’d fly straight to town.”
I stared at Steve. He hadn’t bothered to tell me this earlier. “That’s why you’re so concerned, isn’t it? You knew Bill planned to immediately return to town.”
“Well, yes.” Steve said the words slowly. “I think Bill has had a problem, and that’s why I’m looking for him. I just don’t think the problem is serious. He may have to spend the night on the beach with his airplane, but I can shuttle his passengers to town, and if he has a mechanical problem, I can bring him the tools and parts to fix it.”
I didn’t reply. I just hoped the problem was as simple as that. I focused my attention on the ocean and beach below us. I looked for a stranded plane, I looked for parts of a plane, and I looked for debris. Steve flew low across Uyak Bay. An afternoon breeze rippled the ocean, and reflected sunlight sparkled off the small waves. I saw two aluminum skiffs and three fishing boats. We were only a few miles from the village of Larsen Bay. If the plane had experienced trouble here, someone would have spotted it.
We crested the north end of Amook Island, then Carlsen Point, followed by Zachar Bay. I saw several cabins that belonged to gill-net fishermen, and two fishermen picking salmon from their net looked up at us as we flew low overhead. We crossed the mouth of Spiridon Bay, and I began to relax. People were everywhere. Any serious plane accident would have been reported by now.
We flew inland between two mountains, and I noticed that Steve was leaning forward, scrutinizing the ground below us. There was no sign of human habitation here, and an accident could go unseen. I knew that the lush green vegetation that looked like a mat covering the mountain was actually four or five feet high. A shiny metal plane could lay hidden in the junglelike growth. I’d heard a story about a plane that had crashed on the island in the forties, and despite the fact that it lay nearly intact below a major flight path, the wreckage only had been discovered a few years ago.
“They might have landed at Spiridon Lake,” Steve said. “I’ll fly around it a couple of times.”
I stared down at the small lake, studying the shoreline for a stranded plane, but all I saw were three Sitka black-tailed deer, two does, and a fawn. The deer ran into the brush when they heard the airplane’s engine. I looked at Steve and he shrugged, angling the plane toward the next mountain pass.
As soon as I looked down again, I saw what I thought was litter, a piece of something white and teal blue sticking out of the fireweed. Then, I saw a glint of silver, and my mouth felt dry.
“Oh …!” Steve said. “What happened here?”
Sweat rolled down my forehead as I fought back nausea. I saw larger pieces of white metal, one with a black “N” and a “9” painted on it. I didn’t have to ask; I knew what I was looking at. I also knew there were no survivors. The plane had splintered into small pieces, and the pieces were scattered over a hundred-square-foot area. I saw a large section that looked like part of the fuselage and tail. I also could make out a piece of one wing and a chunk of metal that appeared to be the front of a float. The rest of it, though, looked like scraps of white and teal foil, and if I hadn’t known, I would not have guessed I was looking at the remains of an airplane.
Steve circled the wreckage. “What in happened? The plane blew apart.”
“Bill must have hit the mountain.” My voice cracked.
“No way,” Steve said. “That plane is in a million pieces.”
“Couldn’t it have exploded on impact?”
“Maybe, but I’ve seen my share of plane wrecks, and I’ve never seen anything like that. I want to land and take a closer look.”
“Shouldn’t we get back to town and notify the Coast Guard?”
“Dr. Marcus,” Steve’s eyes locked on mine, “there’s no hurry. No one lived through that.”
“Yeah, I know.” A vision of good-looking, curly-haired Craig flashed in my head. I doubted there was enough left of him to identify. His parents lived in Olympia, Washington. How will I tell them this news? How can I explain that I’d sent their son on an assignment, and now there was not even enough left of him to ship home to them? I sat back hard in the airplane seat. A hole opened in my stomach. I sent Craig to his death.
Chapter Two
I don’t remember Steve circling and landing on Spiridon Lake. I must have jumped from the plane into the shallow water lapping at the lake shore, mindless that I wasn’t wearing rubber boots. The first thing I recall is pushing my way through the dense vegetation, my feet numb in my wet sneakers and socks. I trotted to keep pace with Steve and tripped over a fallen alder, ripping the leg of my jeans. My knee burned, and blood oozed down my leg. The pain felt good. I wanted to be punished for what had happened to Craig. How would I ever forgive myself for this?
I was watching my feet, trying not to trip again, when Steve stopped abruptly, and I bumped into him. We had arrived at the crash site, and Steve was staring at the piece of metal with “9N” painted on it.
“The bodies?” I said.
Steve shook his head. “Disintegrated, I guess.”
My tongue stuck in my mouth. The saliva was gone. “There’s got to be something left.”
I began poking through the weeds and found several scraps of heavy, red nylon. Wasn’t Craig’s backpack red? I couldn’t remember. I saw a small, jagged piece of corrugated metal that looked like the skin of a camera case. Maybe it had belonged to the tourists.
I saw a leather object a few feet away, and as I walked closer, I realized it was a leather shoe or part of a boot. I thought it strange that the shoelace was still woven through the eyelets. How had that small piece of string survived, when nearly everything else had evaporated? I bent down to look at the shoe. I didn’t think I should touch anything, so I held back my long hair with one hand and twisted my face close to the singed, brown leather. There was something in the shoe. I squinted, fighting back the urge to touch the object.
I screamed and jumped up. I ran into the woods and stumbled into a thick mass of alders. Black waves broke in front of my eyes. I fell onto my hands and knees and retched, emptying my stomach.
“What did you find?” I heard Steve’s footsteps behind me.
I tried to stand, but my legs were liquid. Steve reached out his hand to me, and I clutched it, pulling myself upright. I put my hand over my mouth and thought I was going to be sick again.
“A foot.” I could barely hear my voice above the roar in my head, and Steve frowned at me.
“What?”
“There’s part of a foot in a shoe.”
“Oh crap!” Steve turned around and threw his head back. He stared at the sky for a few moments and then said, “Let’s get out of here. We’d better contact the Coast Guard and the FAA. Human remains will attract wild animals.”
He didn’t expand on his explanation,
but I got the picture. Before long, bears, foxes, eagles, ravens, and a host of other scavengers would begin picking through the wreckage, searching for the remains of the pilot and five passengers.
I clung to Steve’s arm while we retraced our steps to the lake shore. Thunder crashed in my head, driving away coherent thoughts. Once I’d climbed into the airplane seat, I leaned back, closed my eyes, and tried to quiet the noise.
“What do you think happened?” I asked Steve, after we had been flying for fifteen minutes.
He remained quiet, and I was just about to repeat my question when his voice cracked in my headphones. “If I ask you something, will you promise not to mention it to the FAA?”
“Okay.”
“What kind of Haz Mats did your guy have?”
Haz Mats was airline jargon for hazardous materials, and the heading covered everything from paint to batteries to fuel. I had signed an FAA form for Kodiak Flight Services stating I understood that my representatives and I would be flying on charters with hazardous materials. Since it is impossible to set up a camp without some sort of hazardous material, I had considered my signature a formality.
“He had a battery, a small tank of propane, and some white gas. Why?” I thought I knew the answer.
“It’s possible that Bill did something we’re all guilty of doing.”
I stared out the windshield, seeing Bill’s actions like a movie in my mind. “He threw the propane tank, the battery, and the gas in the same compartment in the float.”
“We don’t know that,” Steve said. “It’s just a possibility.”
I thought it sounded like a good possibility. “Could those fuels have done that much damage?”
“I don’t know.” Steve paused. “But something blew that plane to pieces. I’m no expert, but twisted metal and embedded particles are evidence of a powerful explosion.”
“Couldn’t the plane have crashed and then exploded?”
“No. It blew up in the air.”
I didn’t understand how Steve could know the plane had exploded in the air, and as he’d said, he was not an explosives expert. I hoped the FAA would be able to determine the source of the explosion, because I didn’t think I could live the rest of my life not knowing what had caused Craig’s death. I felt responsible for him being on that plane, and I wanted to know what had happened to it. I wouldn’t volunteer any information to the FAA that would make Bill look negligent, but if I was asked, I would tell the investigator about the fuels and the battery in Craig’s gear.
Steve didn’t say anything else to me on the way to town. He didn’t radio the Coast Guard or his office, and I guessed that he wanted to wait until he got to town and the privacy of a telephone before he made those calls. The Coast Guard and other authorities would have several hours before dark to secure the crash site.
I wondered who would investigate the crash. Once the Coast Guard determined there were no survivors, the Alaska State Troopers and the FAA probably would take over the investigation. Would a trooper call me tonight? I didn’t want some anonymous policeman contacting Craig’s parents. I had never met Craig’s parents, but I was sure Craig had talked about me, so they would know my name. I’d place the call as soon as I got back to the lab. Since I hadn’t seen Craig’s body, I had trouble believing he was dead. Still, his campsite was gone, so he must have been on the plane, and no one had lived through that crash.
I glanced at Steve as we taxied up to the floatplane ramp. His teeth were clenched, and he stared forward. He had called his dispatcher to report he was landing, but when she asked if he’d found Bill, he told her he would call her in a few moments. As soon as he cut the engine, he jumped onto the float and leapt to the dock. He bent and tied the plane to the dock in one fluid movement. Then, he turned and ran.
I was still unbuckling my seat belt as Steve sprinted up the ramp to the parking lot. I had none of his energy. My wet feet felt glued to the metal floor of the plane. My body trembled as I climbed to the dock. The air smelled sour. I inhaled rotting seaweed and processed fish. I bent over the side of the dock and vomited into the ocean.
I sat in my Explorer and looked at my watch. It was 6:37. With any luck, the lab would be deserted, because I couldn’t face my coworkers now. I considered driving to my apartment, but I had to go to the lab to look up Craig’s parents’ number, and I knew I should call them as soon as possible.
I drove down Rezanof, where I saw kids skating and riding bicycles, their parents standing in their yards, enjoying the perfect June evening. Baskets brimming with blue lobelia, yellow begonias, and red fuchsias framed porches, while the last round of brightly-colored tulips made way for budding lilies. The beautiful evening only deepened my despair. Craig never would smell another flower, watch another movie, or date another girl. His life had been blown apart in its prime.
How had it happened? I asked myself that question for the hundredth time since I’d first seen the scattered bits of metal. Had the pilot put the propane bottle and the battery in the same float compartment? If the metal propane bottle fell across both battery terminals, causing a spark, and if the propane bottle leaked, it could have exploded. Still, that was a lot of ifs, and there had been no turbulence to cause the propane tank to shift in flight. I could think of no better explanation for the explosion, though.
I drove slowly as I bumped along the winding road to the marine center and was relieved to see the empty parking lot. I parked, slid from my Explorer, and dragged myself through the large glass doors. The Kodiak Braxton Marine Biology and Fisheries Research Center was one of the most beautiful laboratories I ever had seen. Huge glass windows fronted the two-story building, offering a panorama of the Pacific Ocean and a bird’s-eye view of the arrival and departure of the Kodiak commercial fishing fleet. The lushly carpeted lobby and breathtaking scenery were meant to impress visitors and inspire donations. I’m not sure impressed visitors would feel the marine center needed a donation, but that was not my department. As long as I had a job, I would not worry about the economical side of operating this showpiece facility.
My office was located down a long corridor on the parking lot level of the building. Laboratories and a small fish-processing plant occupied the lower level. I unlocked my office door, flipped on the fluorescent light, and sunk down into the swivel chair in front of my desk. I pulled Craig’s personnel file from my desk drawer, stared at the desk telephone a moment, and then pushed my chair forward.
I placed the heart-wrenching call to Craig’s parents. Craig’s father answered the phone, and when I told him who I was, and why I was calling, he said nothing and handed the phone to his wife. She remained calm, but didn’t seem to believe me. When I hung up the receiver a few minutes later, I wasn’t sure I had convinced them that their son was dead. I was afraid they thought I was a prank caller, but I didn’t know what else I could do. How could I expect them to believe Craig was dead? I couldn’t believe it myself, and I had seen the wreckage. They would not even be able to look at his body and tell him goodbye. I remembered the pale flesh in the brown leather shoe, and bile rose in my mouth.
My fingers still were gripping the receiver when the phone buzzed. I jerked my hand away and then eased it back to the smooth plastic. I expected to hear the voice of one of Craig’s parents, calling to confirm my identity.
“Marcus,” I answered.
“Dr. Marcus,” a deep voice said. “I am Alaska State Trooper James Hostler. I understand that you have an assistant by the name of Craig Pederson.”
“Yes.”
“I regret to inform you that we believe Mr. Pederson was killed this afternoon in an airplane-related accident.”
“Yes, I know. I was in the plane with Steve Duncan when we found the wreckage.”
Trooper Hostler was quiet for a moment, undoubtedly rereading the information he had been given. “I see.” He recovered nicely. “Have you contacted his nearest kin?”
“Yes, but I’m not sure they believed me. Perhaps you should
also call them.” I recited the Pedersons’ telephone number to the trooper, and he was just about to hang up, when I asked, “Are the troopers at the crash site yet?”
“I’m sorry, I can’t comment on the investigation.”
“Please.”
Hostler paused. “Yes ma’am. Several troopers and an FAA representative have flown out to look at the wreckage.”
I sighed. I felt a measure of relief knowing that professionals were handling the details of the disaster. I needed to call Peter Wayan, the director of the marine center, and tell him about Craig. Then, I planned go home and take a long, hot bath.
Doctor Wayan answered his phone on the third ring. My relationship with Wayan was formal. He treated me with respect but kept his distance, as he did with everyone who worked at the marine center. We were his colleagues, not his friends.
Wayan responded with alarm when I told him the news, but once he decided the marine center was not liable, he clicked his tongue and uttered condolences. I didn’t inform him that the marine center’s fuel may have caused the explosion; we would cross that bridge when we came to it.
I grabbed my purse and briefcase, turned out my office light, and locked the door. I drove out Spruce Cape Road and pulled into the parking lot of my condominium complex. Six young girls were skating in the lot, giggling and all talking at once. Their gaiety made me sadder.
My two-bedroom condominium with a partially-obstructed view of the ocean never had seemed so bleak. I stumbled into the bathroom and ran hot water into the tub. I peeled off my clothes and sank into the steaming water. I don’t know how long I sat there, but when I climbed out of the tub, the water was cold. I climbed into my bed and wished I’d never have to get out. Staying home alone would be even worse, though. Somehow, I had to find the strength to carry on. I would never shake the belief that I had sent Craig to his death, but I had to get past it and find a way to deal with my guilt.
Grief hung in the air as I walked down the hall of the marine center the following morning. Craig had been popular with the staff, joking with everyone from the janitor to the director. I walked into the main office to check my messages and fought back a sob when I saw the tear-stained faces of the two middle-aged secretaries. Glenda, a plump, short, dark-haired woman stood, walked around her desk, and held out her arms to me. I wanted to bolt out the door, but I forced myself to stand still and be consoled.
Murder over Kodiak Page 2