I began to drift to sleep again when the low rumble of an airplane engine passed overhead. I knew the plane was headed for Larsen Bay, but the sound made me edgy, and I shed the cloak of fatigue, blinking rapidly to clear my head and sharpen my senses. I crawled out of the bag and tried to eat another sandwich, but one bite was all I could stand. I got my camera and walked to the edge of the bank.
The tide was coming in now, and by 1:00, the water would be nearly to the top of the bank. A beach walk was out of the question, and I decided instead to take a short hike through the woods. I could practice with the macro adjustment on my camera lens and shoot a few photos of wildflowers and bumblebees.
I dug work gloves out of a side pocket of my pack, not wishing accidentally to brush my bare skin against a pushki plant. I walked along the bank, where the vegetation was sparse. My goal was to avoid pushki and bears, especially the latter.
I knelt by a wild geranium, zooming in my camera lens on the pale violet flower. I snapped three photos of it and walked a few paces further. I photographed wild roses, forget-me-nots, lupine and a small, delicate white flower whose name I did not know. I spent several minutes photographing a large monkshood plant, examining its narrow stem and five, navy blue, helmetshaped flowers. It was beautiful, but deadly. I’d learned from the Alutiiq Cultural Center in town that hundreds of years ago, the natives of Kodiak distilled the sap of monkshood plants and rubbed the poison on their spear tips before a whale hunt. The poison was so potent, it could bring down a large whale. The plant contains the alkaloid aconitine, and as few as three grains of the root can kill a large man.
I backed away from the plant and wondered why I found nature’s toxins so intriguing. Monkshood was not the only deadly plant on the island. Baneberry and water hemlock also grew here. Baneberry I could identify from the bright red or white berries on the plant, but water hemlock closely resembled wild celery, and I would not trust myself to differentiate between the two.
I climbed a steep hill, staying near the edge on a game trail. I walked out onto a grassy knoll at the top and emitted a squeak of pleasure as I devoured the view. I was a hundred feet above the ocean, and below me, the ground fell away in a sheer cliff with small, choppy waves lapping at its base. I faced the mouth of Uyak Bay and could see the end of the earth, beyond Shelikof Straight to the snow-capped mountains on the Alaska Peninsula. Not a cloud blotted my view, and the air was clear, free of the volcanic ash that often blows across from the mainland with a westerly wind.
I found a sunny spot and sat, trying to remember the last time I felt this good. The danger and grief of the past week diminished. The apprehension I’d felt upon awakening in my tent less than an hour earlier was gone. I was able to put everything except Craig’s death aside for a while.
I smiled, but tears trickled down my cheeks. No one would have appreciated this moment, this piece of paradise, more than Craig, because nothing passed by him unnoticed. While I concentrated on work, he pointed out trees, flowers, and colorful starfish. He would have known the name of the small, white flower I’d photographed.
I really missed him. Why did someone as special as Craig have to die? I braced my head between my knees and sobbed. Then, I lay back in the grass and slept for two hours.
My eyes opened, but I didn’t move. Panic coursed through me. Brush crashed inches away from my head. What had I been thinking? I hadn’t even brought my rifle with me. There were three woofing noises, a popping sound, and then more crashing brush. I willed myself to lie still, but I couldn’t do it. I sat and looked behind me. A big, brown, furry butt was disappearing into the woods. The fur jostled from side to side as the big animal ran from something that had smelled like danger. I’m grateful he hadn’t figured out how helpless I was and hadn’t decided to see how well I bounced down a cliff.
I pulled my knees to my chest and allowed myself to breathe. Adrenaline surged through me, and every instinct screamed, flee! The bear, however, had galloped down the game trail I’d followed to the top of the cliff, and I knew it would be wise to give him some lead time. I hoped I’d smelled so repulsive that he’d run for several miles before he stopped.
I laughed, but when I released my knees, I saw that my hands were trembling. I closed my eyes, leaned my head back, and sucked in air, but then a terrible thought hit me: What if the bear stopped at my tent? He could tear everything to shreds with just a few swipes of his paw.
I stood, grabbed my camera, and rushed down the trail, listening for cracking brush, but focusing my eyes on the uneven ground and gnarled vegetation. Fear pulsed through me, but I gritted my teeth to hold it at bay. Sweat ran down my back and stomach. I tripped over a fallen branch once, but caught myself before I fell. I didn’t hear the bear, and I didn’t look for him. I was so convinced that my campsite would be destroyed that when I burst through a clump of alders and stood a few feet in front of the small blue tent, I sagged to the ground, panting hard. The bear had not been here, or if he had, my things hadn’t interested him.
All I wanted to do was climb in my sleeping bag and stay there until morning, but Mr. Cycek was counting on me for dinner. I thought about trying to raise him on the radio, but dismissed the idea. I really didn’t want to sit alone in my tent from now until dark, and I planned to walk on the beach to Cycek’s so as not to surprise any bears. I knew I’d frightened the bear as badly as he had frightened me, so I doubted he would return to this area soon. Get a grip, I told myself. There are thirty-five-hundred bears on this island. You’re bound to see one once in a while.
I checked my watch – 2:00. One hour until my schedule with Morgan. I went into the tent and sat on my sleeping bag, too wired to sleep or read, and I doubted I would sleep again until I returned to town. Then, I remembered the man’s voice on the telephone, and wondered if I ever would be able to sleep again. Maybe I should accept Peter’s offer and take a long vacation.
I replayed the bear encounter in my mind and told myself that the episode should make me feel more and not less secure in the wilderness. I’d been asleep and quiet, but when the bear sensed my presence, he fled. Bears weren’t going to bother me here. I was safe. So why were my fingers quaking, and why did my stomach feel queasy?
I knew I needed to hire another assistant; camping alone in the wilderness was not for me. I considered field work the least attractive side of my profession. Most fish and wildlife biologists choose this field of study because they love the outdoors; lab work and publications were the necessary evils. I was an anomaly, and I thought this gave me an advantage. I sought out lab jobs, while other fish biologists only wanted field positions.
I knew how to operate an outboard, shoot a shotgun, and set up a tent, but I never felt secure on the ocean or in the woods. If the outboard quit running, I could change the spark plugs, but there my expertise ended. If I had to shoot the shotgun to protect myself, would I, and would my shot be accurate? I didn’t know, and I hoped I never would find out. Craig had been good at all things outdoor. He knew outboards and guns and was confident with both. I hated the thought of searching for a new assistant.
My mind drifted from Craig to the explosion, and then to the device that caused the explosion. What had happened that day? Morgan believed the bomb had been nothing more than several sticks of dynamite hooked to a timer. I couldn’t remember ever seeing a stick of dynamite, but I had seen Westerns where the bad guys blew the bank vault with a bundle of the long red sticks. How many of those sticks would it take to explode an airplane? Surely several to inflict the carnage I had seen at the crash site.
So, how could a bundle of dynamite have been slipped onto the plane without the pilot’s knowledge? It couldn’t. Bill must have believed the dynamite was something else, a legitimate parcel to load on his plane. Did that mean he knew the person who had planted the bomb? I reclined onto the sleeping bag while I pondered the question. Not necessarily. If a stranger walked down the dock, handed Bill a box, and told him the package was for someone at Uyak Cannery, Bill
probably wouldn’t have doubted him or inspected the box. As long as he had room on the plane, he would have flown the box to the cannery.
I rubbed my forehead. This line of reasoning brought me back to the same two questions: How would a stranger know Bill was flying to Uyak Cannery, and how would a stranger know who Bill’s other passengers would be?
If Toni Hunt wanted to kill her boyfriend, though, the scenario played easier. All she would have had to do was wrap up the dynamite, put a bow on it, and tell Bill not to open the gift until later.
Maryann Myers had been at the dock that day and knew that in two or three hours her estranged husband would be a passenger on that plane. “Take this box to the cannery,” she could have said, and Bill would have stuffed it in the back of the plane.
The gap in my logic smacked me in the face. Any parcel sent to Uyak Cannery would have been offloaded at the cannery. The bomb hadn’t exploded until Bill and his passengers were flying back to town. Maybe Bill had forgotten to unload the offensive package and it was meant to explode somewhere else. I didn’t think this likely though, so that left two choices: Either the dynamite had been hidden from Bill’s view, or Toni Hunt was the bomber. The only freight going back to town should have been Bill’s personal gear and the luggage of the passengers.
“Oh my …!” I said aloud and sat up. What if the bomb was put on the plane somewhere other than Kodiak? Perhaps someone at Uyak Cannery sent a surprise package with Darren Myers. Had Morgan examined this possibility? The more I thought about it, I warmed to the idea. Darren Myers ran Uyak Cannery, and a boss is bound to foster some resentment in his employees.
I glanced at my watch. It was 2:50. I considered how I would word my thoughts when I talked to Morgan on the radio. Discretion was imperative.
I turned on the sideband to let it warm up. At 2:59, Morgan’s voice crackled through the speaker. “KVT04, this is WXT890.”
“WXT890, KVT04. You’re weak, but I can read you,” I said.
“Happy Fourth of July. How did your collecting go?”
“Fine,” I said. “How did you do?”
“No luck. I’ve made plans to fly back to town this evening. I’m needed there.”
My throat tightened. Whether Morgan was twenty or a hundred miles away made little difference in the wilderness, but I felt safer knowing he was nearby and I could contact him by radio. He must have read my mind.
“Have you talked to Kodiak? Is your radio signal strong enough?” he asked.
“I should be able to.”
“Are you still planning to go to Mr. Cycek’s for supper?”
“Roger. I’ll head that way in a few minutes.”
“Let’s set up a schedule for 10:00 tonight. Will you be back to your tent by then?”
“Roger.” I hoped to return to my campsite hours before then. Mr. Cycek was a nice old man, but a couple of hours of melancholy stories about his late wife were all I could handle.
“I’ll use Kodiak Flight Services’ radio. Stand by from 10:00 to 10:30.”
“Roger,” I said again. “If the reception is down, though, you may not be able to hear me.”
“I understand.”
“Nick.” I squeezed the mike and spoke loudly into it. I didn’t want to repeat myself, and I hoped Morgan would understand what I was saying. “Have you considered that the package could have been put on the plane at one of the stops instead of in Kodiak?”
“Roger.” There was a pause. “Which stop do you think the most likely?”
“The cannery,” I said. I thought it was the only possibility, and I wondered what Morgan was thinking.
“We’re looking into it,” he said.
“That’s all I have then. I’ll stand by tonight and see you tomorrow.”
“Okay. Have a good evening. This is WXT890, clear.”
“KVT04.”
I switched off the radio and sat for a minute, still clutching the mike in my hand. I felt empty and alone. I wished more than anything that Morgan was here, that we could discuss the case, that I could feel safe in the presence of a strong man.
“What,” I said, and dropped the mike by the radio. Since when was I such a wimp? Since when did I need a man to take care of me? Men were like drugs; they made you weak and dependent. Better to leave them alone and depend on yourself.
I changed into a clean shirt and wiped my face and hands with moist towelettes. I combed my hair and pulled it away from my face in a ponytail. I didn’t think Mr. Cycek would notice my lack of makeup. As long as my hands were clean, and I didn’t smell too bad, I should pass general muster.
I pulled on my boots and hoisted the twelve gauge on my shoulder. This time, I would be ready for any surprises. I knew I had three shells in the magazine, and I dropped three more into my pocket.
I walked to the cliff and looked down at the beach. The tide was at its midpoint, but there was plenty of walking room on the beach. I would have to wade around a few of the rock outcroppings, but I thought I could make it to Cycek’s without having to find a trail through the woods. As I stood staring at the beach, I heard a loud squawk above me. I swiveled my gaze upward to the large, sleek, black bird sitting in the cottonwood.
“You stay out of my tent,” I said. I hoped I had tied the flap tightly enough to keep this guy out.
“Auuk,” he replied, and we stared at each other for a moment. Was this the raven Craig had told me about in his last radio broadcast? Was this the guy who had been giving him trouble?
“Did you meet my friend Craig?”
The black feet tapped back and forth on the branch limb, and it occurred to me that this bird was possibly one of the last living creatures to see Craig alive. If only he could talk.
I tried to shed my gloom on the walk to Cycek’s. A slight breeze ruffled the water, not enough wind to chill me, but enough to keep the bugs out of my face. I inhaled a fruity, salty breath, a mix of ocean, wildflowers, alders, and cottonwoods, and marveled that my sinuses hadn’t objected to all the pollen.
The shotgun felt heavy on my shoulder, but I welcomed the weight and the secure feeling it offered. I didn’t like guns. I wasn’t good with them, and I didn’t feel comfortable around them. On my first field trip, two weeks after I started my job at the marine center, I told Peter I wasn’t taking a shotgun with me. He’d replied that only a fool camped on Kodiak Island without a firearm. He was right, and many hours of target practice later, here I was with a gun I knew how to load, shoot, and clean. The question was, would I shoot it if I had to? Craig had assured me when I confessed my doubts to him that I would shoot the gun without hesitation to protect my life.
“You won’t even think about it,” he’d said. “If you know your weapon, you will instinctively use it when you need to.”
I wanted to believe him, but I had doubts, not only about my marksmanship, but about my ability to judge when killing an animal or a man was the only option left to me.
I waded around a large pile of rocks and was surprised to see smoke curling in the air on the cliff above me. I’d been so engrossed in my thoughts that I hadn’t realized I was nearing Mr. Cycek’s cabin.
I walked up the steep path and knocked on the door. A few moments later, the door swung open and I was embraced by the warm fragrance of a busy kitchen. I picked out garlic, basil, and dill from the spicy mix, but that didn’t begin to describe the complex aromas wafting from the small kitchen.
Mr. Cycek, who bowed slightly when he opened the door, was a sight to behold. He wore Carhartt pants, a red-and-blue flannel shirt and a narrow blue tie. His false teeth were in place, and his grey hair was slicked neatly back from his forehead. Apparently, I had underdressed.
I smiled. “Happy Fourth of July.”
“And to you, my dear.” He bowed again.
“It smells great in here,” I said. “What are you cooking?”
He shook his finger in front of his face. “A chef never gives away his secrets.” He gestured toward the couch. “Please, sit do
wn. You can leave the gun by the door and hang your coat on the hook.”
I followed his instructions and perched on the edge of the couch. The room was as spotless as it had been on my last visit, and for our dinner, Mr. Cycek had draped the small table with a white sheet, placed a canning jar of wildflowers in the center, and laid two place settings. The only other decorative change I noted was that the photo of his wife that had adorned the alder coffee table had been moved to the bookshelf, and in its place stood the raven carving I had admired. I smiled. My praises must have inspired Mr. Cycek to display his artwork front and center.
“Would you like a glass of salmonberry wine?” Mr. Cycek walked from the kitchen clutching a juice glass of dark red liquid.
“Yes, thank you.” I reached for the glass and stared down into it. I braced myself, expecting a syrupy sweet concoction. Mr. Cycek was watching me carefully, and I didn’t want to grimace when I sipped his brew.
I rolled the liquid around in my mouth, acquainting it with my taste buds, and then carefully swallowed. The taste surprised me, and I glanced up at my host. “This is very good,” I said. “Did you make it yourself?”
He nodded, smiled, and returned to the kitchen.
I swallowed more of the crimson liquid. I had tasted homemade berry wines before, and they had been sickeningly sweet. This wine was fruity but dry. It resembled a Merlot in both color and taste. Maybe Mr. Cycek would share his winemaking tips with me. I took one more sip and then set the glass on the table. I reminded myself that the alcohol content of this homemade wine could be quite high, and I didn’t want to end the evening staggering down the beach in search of my campsite.
Mr. Cycek glided from the kitchen, one hand holding a plate of crackers, the other a bowl of pink spread with a knife sticking out of it.
“Try some of my smoked salmon spread.” He placed the dishes in front of me. “Don’t eat too much, though. I want you to be hungry for supper.”
Murder over Kodiak Page 24