Murder over Kodiak

by Robin, Barefield

  I edged past a large cow parsnip plant, or pushki as it was called locally; the sap of that plant could make my life miserable for weeks. I learned my first summer on the island that I was extremely allergic to it, and simply grabbing the stalk would burn my hands and leave my fingers covered with pus-filled blisters that would take weeks to heal. I’d seen Dana once with a blistered cheek, and she’d told me she had sliced a pushki plant while using her weed eater, and the sap had squirted her in the face. The plant had my respect.

  I sat on my jacket and looked around me at the plants and wildflowers. I knew so little about the plants of this island. Pushki had caught my attention, and I knew wild geraniums, chocolate lilies, bluebells, and the beautiful, poisonous monkshood. I could also point out a rose bush as long as there were roses on it. Without the flowers, though, I could not distinguish a rose bush from a salmonberry bush. I should have borrowed one of Mr. Cycek’s wild-plant books. Instead of sleeping, I could have spent the afternoon learning about my environment.

  I stretched out and pulled the bill of the cap over my face. The lapping ocean lulled me to sleep, and forty minutes later, the harsh call of a raven woke me like an alarm clock.

  I sat up, startled, and then remembered where I was. My head and shoulders were in the shade now, and I felt chilled. I slid into my jacket and leaned my head onto my bent knees. I felt drugged by too much sunlight and fresh air. I pulled the cap from my head and ran my fingers through my hair. When I finally sat up and opened my eyes, I was staring at the cap.

  I jumped to my feet and dropped the hat as if it were on fire. What was wrong with me? Why had it taken me so long to realize the significance of the cap? Had Morgan pieced it together?

  I looked at my watch – 5:30. I had radio schedule with Morgan in half an hour.

  The tranquility of the afternoon was shattered. My stomach vibrated, and my mind and feet paced. I’d wanted to get away from everything, but now I felt helpless. I pulled a sandwich from my pack and tried to eat it, but it tasted like rubber and warm mayonnaise. After two bites, I wrapped it up and stuffed it back into the pack.

  At 5:45, I turned on the sideband radio to let it warm up. I faintly heard someone on a boat trying to call one of the charter plane services in town. They must have answered him, because I picked out bits and pieces of his end of the conversation, but I couldn’t hear Kodiak. I remembered that hot, sunny days did not provide ideal radio conditions.

  I left the tent and walked down to the beach. What would I do if I couldn’t talk to Morgan? I’d never make it through the night if I couldn’t share my thoughts with him. I ordered myself to calm down and then climbed back up the beach into the tent and sat on my sleeping bag next to the radio. I heard nothing but static for the next several minutes, and was about to try Morgan when I heard his voice, a bit muffled but loud.

  “KVT04 this is WXT890. How do you read?”

  “WXT890. I’ve got you fine. How ‘bout me?”

  “Loud and clear. How’s it going?” Morgan asked.

  “I have my tent up, and I’m ready to start my collections in the morning.”

  “Sounds good. I didn’t find much today, but I’ll try again tomorrow.

  “Are you planning to spend tomorrow night there, too?” For some reason, I felt safer knowing that Morgan was camped a few miles away, even if he only could reach me by airplane.

  “I have a tentative schedule to be picked up at 4:00 tomorrow afternoon. Unless I find some reason to stay here longer, I’ll fly back then.”

  “I thought of something that might be important,” I said. I didn’t have a powerful antenna, and the radio reception was poor right now, but I had to assume that anyone on the island with a sideband radio could hear me. I’d been thinking for the last several minutes about how to word my explanation.

  “Maryann thought Bill looked good in his teal cap.” I paused, giving Morgan a moment to pick up on my meaning. “Bill didn’t have the cap until right before the flight.”

  My radio hissed static but nothing else. I thought I’d lost Morgan. “WXT890, are you there?” I shouted into the microphone.

  “Sorry, Jane. I was thinking,” Morgan said. “You’re right. Good catch. I’ll check into that when I get back to town tomorrow.”

  I wanted him to question Maryann Myers immediately, but Morgan was right, he could do nothing until he got to town.

  “Do you want to set up a radio schedule for tomorrow?” I asked.

  “Yes. How about 3:00? By then I’ll know whether or not I plan to spend another night.”

  “I have a dinner date with Mr. Cycek, but I’ll be here at 3:00.”

  “I’m glad you can work it into your schedule.” I could picture Morgan’s smile. “You’re the only person I know who needs a social calendar when you go camping.”

  “Don’t invite any bears into your tent,” I said. “KVT04 clear.”

  “WXT890.”

  I listened to the hiss of the radio for a few minutes and then turned it off, suddenly feeling very alone. The peaceful serenity I’d enjoyed a few hours earlier now felt like isolation. I’d become a prisoner instead of an escapee.

  I forced myself to go to work and get my gear ready for the following day. I first took everything out of my pack, and then stuffed the folded army shovel, collection bags, garbage bags, a pocket knife, stakes, rope, my notebook, a pencil, a sandwich, and a can of pop into the pack. My project was as simple as field work ever got, but I didn’t want to hike a mile down the beach just to find I’d forgotten something essential. The tide wouldn’t wait for me to run back to my tent to grab the missing piece of equipment.

  Once my pack was ready, I set my watch alarm for 5:30. It would be light enough to see by then, and I could begin hiking to my collection spot.

  I walked down to the beach and strolled in the opposite direction from Mr. Cycek’s cabin. The tide was low now and soon would be coming in. I had to be careful not to walk too far, or I would get stranded by the rising tide and be forced to climb the bank and hike back through the thick jungle-like growth of the woods. I had no desire to hike by myself through head-high weeds in bear country.

  I wasn’t looking forward to the night. Darkness only lasted a few hours this time of year, but I knew I’d have trouble sleeping during those hours. It took a few nights to get used to wilderness sounds, to realize that every thump was not a bear five feet from your tent, and that you probably would survive the night.

  I crouched on the beach and watched a seiner on the horizon. The wind had calmed to a light breeze, and mosquitos buzzed around my face.

  “Mosquito repellent,” I said. “That’s what I forgot.” I stood and walked back to my tent.

  The night was as bad as I expected. I tried to read, but I soon felt groggy. I put down the book and fell asleep for two hours. When I woke, the light had faded, and the dusk was muffled further by the fabric of the tent. I fumbled beside my sleeping bag until my hand closed around the cool plastic grip of my flashlight. I clicked on the beam and directed it at my watch. It was 10:30.

  I’d placed the shotgun near the tent flap. I got it now and put it under the edge of the sleeping bag. I crawled back into the bag, closed my eyes, and hoped for slumber, but the noises outside the tent increased in proportion to the dimming light.

  I knew not to let my imagination roam, but my logic couldn’t rein it in. Usually when I camped, I imagined bears ripping apart my tent and then me, but tonight, marauding terrorists, not wild animals, topped my creature list.

  What if someone had followed me from town, hired a plane, and had the pilot drop him a few miles from my campsite? “And why would anyone do that?” I asked myself out loud, but I couldn’t guess what had precipitated any of the violent acts that recently had touched my life. I knew I was safer sleeping here than in my apartment.

  I thought about Jack Justin. He had been so terrified the last time I’d seen him, and rightfully so, as it turned out. Had he been involved in the death of his o
wn parents? Why not? He wouldn’t be the first offspring to do away with his mother and father, and the guy was cold and manipulative. He didn’t seem to mourn the loss of his parents. He’d only been concerned about the briefcase. No, concerned was too light a word. He’d been obsessed with the briefcase; crazed to the point of believing that I had taken it. Then, when his life was in danger, he apparently had given my name to his killers. I chuckled to myself. My evening out with Jack Justin had not been one of my better dates

  I heard a twig crack and pushed the sleeping bag away from my face. How could I joke about Jack Justin? The guy had been brutally murdered. Too little sleep. I was beginning to feel giddy.

  If Jack had told me any part of the truth, he only wanted the briefcase to give to the terrorists who had bombed the airplane. I hadn’t believed him, but now I didn’t know. Someone very bad had killed him, and someone with a great deal of knowledge about bombs had blown up the marine center. Had this same person or group of people planted the bomb on the Beaver? I couldn’t work out another answer, and I wished I had been able to talk to Morgan more about his two-separate-bomber hypothesis.

  When I cleared my mind, I could hear the faint lapping of waves against the shore. I concentrated on the ocean and tried to sleep, but before I knew it, my brain was flashing facts about the Beaver bombing.

  If I discounted everything that happened after the plane exploded, I still found the terrorist theory weak. The bomb was a simple, homemade job, probably several sticks of dynamite wired to an alarm clock trigger. Such a device would be the more likely weapon of an individual with limited knowledge and access to explosives. A group of terrorists would use a more finely-honed instrument that was both reliable and could avoid detection. Wouldn’t they? Maybe I’d seen too many James Bond movies.

  The second obstacle I had, even though it didn’t seem to bother Morgan, was that terrorists from somewhere other than Kodiak would not be familiar with the way Kodiak Flight Services operated. Granted, the small charter company was not a top-secret organization, but certainly a stranger would have to ask at least one question to know which plane would be used for a particular flight. None of the employees of Kodiak Flight Services remembered a stranger asking any questions about which plane would be used for the Justins’ flight. Even if the terrorists were invisible and could avoid detection, how would they know where to plant their explosive bundle?

  Problem three I had with the terrorist theory was that if the briefcase was so important, why in blazes would they blow it up? Did they not know the Justins had it with them on the plane? Did they hope to kill the Justins and then steal the briefcase from their hotel room? I propped my hands under my head and wondered if I ever would know the answers to all my questions.

  I didn’t believe that the man with the accent who had called me was still in Kodiak, because if he was still on the island and wanted to find me, he would have succeeded. I hoped I finally had convinced him I did not have what he was after. I wanted the man and his associates caught and punished for their crimes, but I wanted even more never to meet him face-to-face. I’d choose a keen sense of survival over bravery any day.

  I stretched and turned over on my stomach. My thoughts began to wander, and I was fading into sleep, when I heard small, scampering feet. I twisted around in my bag and groped for the flashlight. The rapid ticking continued as I fumbled for the button and switched on the beam. I spotlighted the tiny noise-maker, and once I steadied my breathing, I laughed as the small vole fought for traction on the slippery, plastic tarp floor of the tent. Caught in the spotlight, the bucktoothed little creature looked like a cartoon tap dancer. His poor little heart must have been fluttering as he tried to figure out what he’d stumbled into. I clicked off the flashlight and let him continue to safety. I sank back into my bag, but the more I thought about the vole, the harder I laughed. The release of tension felt great.

  I wiped the tears of laughter from my eyes and once again turned my attention to sleep. I could make a case for Toni Hunt, George Wall, or Maryann Myers as the mad plane bomber. Maryann Myers seemed the most stable and least prone to violence of the three, but she had lied to us about knowing which plane would be used for her husband’s flight. If she was innocent, why lie? Toni Hunt was psychotic, but would she kill her boyfriend? I didn’t know her well enough to answer that question.

  I’d only met Mr. Wall once, but that one meeting had impressed me. I believed he was capable of killing five people, and he knew how to make a crude bomb. He admittedly hated Dick Simms and had access to the dock. How did he know Simms would be on that plane? The problem always came back to that question. Toni Hunt knew her boyfriend would be flying that plane, and Maryann Myers knew her husband would be a passenger on that plane. Either of them could have handed Bill the fatal package, and he wouldn’t have been suspicious. Toni Hunt’s black room was the last image in my mind when I finally fell asleep.

  Chapter Fourteen

  I awoke slowly from a deep sleep and fumbled to turn off the alarm on my watch. I unzipped the sleeping bag and shivered as I reached for my jacket and pulled it around me. I clicked on the flashlight and stood, hunched over in the small tent. I shuffled toward the tent flap and untied it. It was lighter out than I expected. The sky again was cloudless and the air still.

  I wandered a few feet from the tent and relieved my bladder. The lack of a bathroom was one thing I hated about camping, although, I missed a shower more than a toilet, and on this trip, I hadn’t even brought a stove to heat water. That meant no shower and no coffee. I’d survive, but it wouldn’t be pleasant.

  I glanced at my watch. It was 5:10. I had just enough time for a sandwich and a Diet Pepsi. I forced down the mushy bread and meat, shouldered my backpack, and hiked down to the edge of the cliff above the beach. If I ignored the small bugs buzzing around my face, the morning was perfect. The sweet fragrance of wild roses mingled with the salt air, and chirping birds and the far-off rumble of a boat engine were the only sounds I heard. A bald eagle swooped down and plucked his breakfast, a four-pound salmon, from the ocean. He landed on the beach and began tearing the fish apart. I didn’t want to disturb him, so I walked several feet along the cliff before descending to the beach.

  Wildlife is abundant when you don’t have a camera or the time to photograph it. Two does and four fawns walked to within thirty feet of me before they detected possible danger and angled up the bank. I slowed my pace as they approached, expecting them to see me and bolt at any moment, and I finally stopped and watched them strut toward me. I cursed myself for not having my camera accessible. I had it with me, packed in the zippered pouch on my pack, but I knew I would spook the deer by the time I removed the pack and unzipped the pocket.

  The fawns were tiny, with big white spots covering their golden bodies, and their large brown eyes trained on their mothers’ hooves. When the two does began climbing the bank, the fawns looked bewildered, heads turning in every direction to locate the source of their mothers’ concern. They didn’t seem to see me, but after only a moment’s hesitation, they followed the does at a leisurely pace.

  I also saw six foxes on my walk, but they were all a long ways off. The tide would be forty-five minutes later tomorrow, so I could afford a more leisurely pace and stop to snap a few photos.

  I reached my destination and set up my crude rope grid. If I’d been about to perform a population-density study, my grid would not have been adequate. My only goal, though, was to gather a random sampling of clams, and with the grid, I wouldn’t have to depend on my memory and holes in the sand to know where I had dug. My memory was faulty, and holes disappeared when the tide rose. I’d drawn a replica of the grid in my notebook, numbering the squares, and planned to mark each square with an X when I gathered my samples from that plot. I would drop each bivalve I collected into a collection bag and write the home plot number on the bag. I got my gear ready, assembled the shovel, and went to work.

  I began digging at 6:30, and by 8:30, my lower back
muscles screeched at me to stop. I looked at my pile of sample bags and checked the grid in my notebook. I was well over half done. I could finish the rest the following morning. I carefully layered the samples in my pack and groaned when I lifted it onto my back. I slid my notebook and extra sample bags into the pack, but carried the shovel so I wouldn’t smash the delicate bivalves.

  I’d collected three species of clams, as well as cockles and mussels. Mr. Cycek reported that his wife had eaten steamers and butter clams, so those two species were my primary interest. However, I knew that certain species of bivalves concentrated the deadly saxitoxin much quicker and to a greater degree than other species, and I hoped someday to study this phenomenon. For now, I just collected the data.

  I spurted breath in short, shallow gasps when I climbed the bank to my tent. I nearly dropped my pack to the ground, but then remembered the fragile contents. I eased it off my shoulders and lowered it like a case of eggs. Then, I plopped beside it and squeezed my back muscles. My shirt was soaked through with sweat. I unzipped my coat and tossed it into the tent. I remembered why I hired strong, young college students for this work.

  I closed my eyes and nearly succumbed to the heavy swirl of fatigue. Sleep would have been so easy, but I had work to do first. I sat and shook my head. I pulled each collection bag from my pack, removed the clam from the bag, carefully sliced the adductor muscles holding the shells shut, removed the tissue from the shells, re-bagged and labeled the tissue, and placed the bag on top of the dry ice in the Styrofoam cooler. After all the clams had been shucked, I set the cooler inside the tent and stretched out on my sleeping bag. I awoke shivering a half-hour later and crawled into the bag.