by Sue Henry
Abandoning the little that was left of the unpacking till later, angry and a little sick at what she had found, she carried the bag into the tent, turned on the overhead lights, set it on the card table, and reached for the Iridium phone Becker had brought her. About to punch in the number for the troopers office, she hesitated. Would they believe that she didn’t know where this had come from? Didn’t the timing of her finding it seem a little too neat, so soon after their discussion this afternoon—
as if she were trying to pretend it didn’t belong to her?
The knowledge of her having found it—its very existence—could certainly give Tatum another weapon.
Still, she thought, I ought to report it right now. It would look worse if they found out later. Besides, there was
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the unpleasant possibility that whoever had put it there might come back, meaning to make use of it later.
Hadn’t Mac mentioned the prospect of a second try, if the first one didn’t do what it was designed for? But why leave this ugliness in her shed, unless it was meant to cast more suspicion on her?
Unhappy, uncertain, and feeling very much alone, she laid down the phone and stood staring into the open bag. Was it something like this that had started the cabin fire? Had the arsonist put it in her shed? Had the prowler Billy had heard secreted it in order not to be caught with the tools for a possible second try? But the first try had worked—devastatingly well—except for the fact that she hadn’t burned with her cabin. No one would leave this kind of evidence anywhere near the scene of their crime, would they? No, they would carry it away with them—hide it. Someone, for some reason, must have meant this to be found in her storage shed. Who? Why?
Would Tatum go to the extreme of planting evidence? She thought he might. This could have been meant to incriminate either her or Anne. He could certainly have broken the lock on her shed door and slipped in with this nasty bag of tricks. She wouldn’t put it past him, given his obsession and the behavior she had previously witnessed.
Or had it been Anne? Was she responsible for the fire that reduced the cabin to smoldering rubble?
Jessie’s anger grew as she contemplated that idea. Why would Anne want to make her seem guilty of starting a fire? To shift Tatum’s suspicions away from herself?
Resentment over the disagreement they’d had at the
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cabin? But Anne wouldn’t have had to break into the shed to do it—the shed key had hung just inside the cabin’s front door and using it would have been less obvious. Often, when Jessie was busy in the dog yard, the shed wasn’t even locked. Anne could have slipped in and planted it anytime.
But it could have been anyone. There was no way of knowing. It was improbable that whoever put it there had left any fingerprints on its contents. She had not touched anything but the outside of the bag, but thinking about the roll of electrician’s tape, Jessie suddenly knew without a doubt that it was her own—the one she had been looking for on the trip to the cabin in the hills—that it would have her fingerprints all over it.
This new trouble was meant for her. But maybe someone else had touched it, too.
God, what do I do now?
Put it back where you found it.
And have someone like Tatum find it or send someone to find it, if he was the one who put it there? I don’t think so.
Get rid of it—all of it.
How? Besides, that might not be smart. I might need these things to show someone later.
And someone might find it very interesting that you had them and said nothing.
Right, so—what?
Hide it. But not the tape that may have your prints.
Think of somewhere else to put that.
Where?
Living with a state trooper had taught her a few things. Going out to the shed, she retrieved a box of Zi-
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ploc bags and returned to the tent. Carefully, she used a kitchen fork to lift the black roll of tape from the bag and drop it into one of the Ziplocs without touching it.
Separated from the other items in the bag it became in-nocuous, lost its immediate threat. Though someone might wonder at the plastic bag that held it, no one would give more than a passing thought to her eccentricity in packaging, especially if it were put back where she usually kept it. She put it in the tool bag she carried on her sled, now on a shelf in the shed, then closed and locked the shed door that had been repaired by a neighbor that afternoon.
Now, what to do with the bag and the rest of its extremely offensive contents? Separated, the items were quite ordinary, except the lighter fluid, perhaps. Scattering them in places where they could normally be stored might defuse their damning potential, but for some reason she couldn’t identify she felt that it might be wise to keep them together—contents intact and un-handled. Hiding the bag in the woods would leave it vulnerable to discovery by others, but she didn’t want it found in her living space or damning her from the storage shed, for that matter. If Tatum had placed it there, he could set the hounds of law enforcement on her, counting on its discovery.
In the back of the dog box on the truck between the dog compartments was the closetlike space that held harness and other equipment for racing. While the box was being made for her, Jessie had asked the builder to install a false back, held closed with magnets, so that all she had to do was press on it sharply and it would spring open. Painted to match the rest of the wooden
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box and placed in the dark end of the space, it fit securely and looked like a solid panel, with hidden hinges and no handle to reveal its presence. She had screwed hooks onto the visible side of it on which to hang lines and harness. She used the hidden inside for storing guns and camera equipment—anything that
might be stolen from a musher’s truck that was sometimes left unlocked and unwatched during a training run or a racing event.
Zipping up the gym bag, Jessie took it to the truck, where she deposited it inside the secret compartment.
Even if someone searched her truck from top to bottom, it was unlikely they would find it. Only three other people knew of its existence: the builder; Alex Jensen, who had suggested it in the first place; and Billy Steward, who had fallen against it by accident once, but had promised not to tell. Satisfied, she went back to the tent and locked herself in, which seemed a little optimistic considering that it was made of canvas, but made her feel better. She didn’t like the idea of the arsonist returning for another try, and felt safer when she had slipped her Smith & Wesson .44 under the roll-away bed, within easy reach.
With the fire bomb kit components as safely hidden as possible, she relaxed a little, switched on the space heater to take the chill from the room, and turned her attention to dinner. With help from Billy and his father, she had fed and watered the dogs before the Stewards left for home, but it had been a long time since she had eaten the lunch Oscar had provided.
There was just enough of Oscar’s good soup left
for dinner, so she put it on the stove to heat slowly,
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went out to the puppy pen and brought in Jeep,
Daisy, and their two littermates, for a romp on the floor of the tent. The half-grown pups were fascinated by the new environment and immediately set out to explore it and everything in it. Jessie’s cabin had been puppy proofed, of course, but now she had to rescue several items that had been set low enough to be reached by these four, who, with more curiosity than discipline, wanted to examine and taste anything within reach.
Sitting on the rug with a handful of chew treats for distraction, she was happily crawled over and accepted as one of the gang. They gnawed at the treats and wrestled each other on and around her, licked her hands and face, and snuggled close to her warmth to be scratched and petted.
All dogs are naturally physical
with other dogs, expressing their likes and dislikes in licks, nips, bites, and rubs, tumbling over and around each other in play or in squabbles. It probably starts before they are born and sharing space inside their mother with several other puppies. Nursing from mothers that lick and groom them, sometimes impatiently snap at them,
mouth them up bodily when they are small, puppies quickly develop an acceptance of physical relationships, and expect no less of their humans. Though they may figure out that, “Good dog,” indicates their behavior is agreeable, the best way a human can express appreciation and affection is with a hands-on approach, in the language they know best, giving them lots of petting, scratching, rubbing, along with words of praise. The best learning environment includes pos-
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itive reinforcement that is physical, for that is most clearly understood by the dog. Some trainers even nip a dog’s ear with their teeth to encourage it to stand still or to correct minor misbehaviors, just as its mother or another older dog would.
Jessie was aware of this, and physical contact with her mutts was very much a part of her training program from the time they were small. The contact was bene-ficial to her as well. Playing with her puppies and young dogs—as she was doing now on the floor, in the temporary shelter of the tent—calmed her, relieved stress, and gave her a sense of belonging; for humans are also physical animals and susceptible to touch. Still feeling Jensen’s absence sharply, physically and otherwise, it was comforting to share the warmth of other live beings.
Scooping young Jeep into her lap, she explored his chest and shoulders with her fingers.
“You’re going to be a strong one when you’re
grown,” she informed him. “Good muscles developing here for pulling sleds.”
At the sound of her voice, he looked up and cocked his head to listen for a moment, then wriggled his way back onto the floor and padded off to pounce on his littermate Storm.
Jessie leaned back to watch, happy with this energetic bunch, back in her element, cabin fire forgotten for a moment.
When the soup was hot, she left the pups to their own devices momentarily, made a sandwich, then sat at the card table to eat. Her spirits, dampened by the afternoon’s revelations of Tatum’s accusations and the
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discovery of the makings for a fire bomb, lightened as she smiled at the antics of the pups. She was thankful that the fire had been confined to her living space and had not involved any of her canines, especially these endearing little guys.
“You’re not just things and walls, are you?” she asked them, and knew how upset she would have been to lose any of her dogs. Everything else was replaceable.
“Maybe it was time I cleaned house anyway.”
After an hour, she took the pups back to their pen and turned off the overhead lights. Finding a news broadcast that came in pretty well on the small television, she settled down in the easy chair near the floor lamp to watch it, with a cup of tea and a couple of brownies someone had brought. The corners of the canvas room were dark with shadows, but it felt almost homey in the soft light. The chair was comfortable, though it felt foreign and she missed her large sofa. Halfway through the program, still waiting for the weather prediction, she dozed off, worn out with stress and the overwhelming generos-ity of the day.
Tomorrow—a last thought drifted through her mind.
Tomorrow nothing would stop her from a long training run— nothing.
It was fully dark when she woke to full alertness in the chair almost two hours later. The television was showing some sitcom and she reached to turn it off so she could listen.The dogs were barking, the yard lights had blinked on, and a human shadow fell suddenly upon the canvas side of the tent near the door.
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“Jessie?” called an unfamiliar voice. “Jessie Arnold.
Are you there?”
Slowly, quietly, moving sock-footed across the
room, she drew her .44 from the floor under the bed as she assessed the shadow. Apparently male, he stood still, figure completely outlined by the light behind him, and seemed to have nothing in his hands, which were held out to his sides.
“Who is it?” she asked. “What do you want?”
“It’s Greg Holman. Can I talk to you, please?”
The answer was completely unexpected. But, she
thought, I should have anticipated the possibility that he’d show up sooner or later.
She stood very still for a moment, wondered if she had locked the door, remembered that she had. Considering what to do, she moved closer to the phone on the table.
“What do you want?” she repeated.
“I’m looking for my wife—for Anne. I think maybe you can help me find her.”
“I have no idea where she is.”
“But she was here, right?”
“She’s not here now.”
“Where is she?”
“I said I don’t know. Go away, or I’ll call the troopers.”
Considering the evidence of Anne’s scars and ap-
pearance, and what she had related about Greg Holman’s abuse, Jessie had no intention of telling him anything that might help him find her or of letting him come any closer.
“Please, Jessie. I’m really worried about her. Can I come in and talk about it? I’ve got to know what she told you.”
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“What I saw and what she told me makes me more
comfortable with you outside, Greg—even more if
you’re not here at all. Why are you sneaking in here after dark anyway? I didn’t hear a car.”
“I parked out by the road and walked. I went by a couple of times earlier, but there were people here all day and I wanted to talk to you alone.”
“Why?”
“I don’t want the cops involved. First I’ve got to find out what the hell’s going on.” For the first time, impatience found its way into his voice, and a note of plead-ing. “Jessie, whatever she told you, I didn’t do the things she says. I never hurt her.”
“Somebody obviously did. What about her face—
and all those cuts on her arm?”
“Oh, God,” Holman groaned. “Is she doing that
again?”
“You’re kidding, right? No one would do that to
themselves.”
“No—I’m not kidding. She cuts herself with a razor blade when she’s angry or feels insecure. She’s done it for years.”
Astounded, Jessie knew that she believed him. It made sense, and the discouragement in his voice reinforced it. She remembered the stained tissues and trace of blood on the blade she had found in her bathroom and her assumption that Anne had cut herself shaving her legs. She had briefly wondered why the blade had been taken out of the razor, but had ignored it in her irritation at the other woman’s inconsideration.
“Look,” she said to Greg, deciding suddenly. “I’m going to let you come in. But I want you to know that
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I have a handgun—and a phone that connects directly to the troopers’ office. I’ll unlock the door, then you wait till I tell you to open it. Got that?”
“Yes—thanks.”
“Move away from the tent.”
The shadow receded and stopped, waiting.
Jessie went to the door, unlocked it, and retreated halfway across the canvas room. “Okay. Come on in—
slowly.”
15
Q
GREG HOLMAN CAME CAUTIOUSLY INTO JESSIE’S
-
TEMPO
rary living space, moving slowly, with both hands where she could see them. Inside, he closed the door, stopped, and waited, glancing nervously at the gun in her hand, while she looked him over.
“I’ve got no reason to trust you. Take off your jacket, toss it over here, and turn around—slo
wly.”
Removing the Carhart’s jacket, he threw it to the floor in front of her and turned slowly, so she could see that he had no weapons, visible or bulging in his pockets.
“Turn out your pockets.”
A rattle of change hit the floor and he stood holding his wallet, nothing else.
“Raise your pants legs.”
Nothing but wool socks. Unless he was a magician, he was unarmed.
She kept him standing while she went through the pockets of his jacket, finding only the keys to a rental car, a roll of butterscotch Life Savers, a round-trip 182
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plane ticket from Denver to Seattle and Anchorage with the return half unused, and a book of matches from a motel in Wasilla. She replaced them all.
“Here.” She tossed it back and gestured with the barrel of the .44 to one of the folding chairs. “Sit there.
And keep in mind that I’m a pretty good shot.”
Straddling the other chair, so she could lean her forearms on the back and keep the handgun between them, she sat ten feet away and assessed him more thoroughly.
Though she would have recognized him easily
enough, there were significant differences. He looked more than ten years older. Two vertical lines now separated his eyebrows, and several lines wrinkled his once-smooth forehead. The open expression she remembered was gone, and what she saw instead was a guarded watchfulness. Stress had added tension to his face and the way he held himself—tired, worn down, and worried. Though still the strong, fit outdoorsman in his well-worn jeans and battered work boots, there was a new awareness in his attitude that he had lacked before.
“Okay,” she said, nodding to Holman, who had been waiting silently while she studied him. “What do you want, and why should I care?”
He sat up a little straighter. “I’ve got to know where she is, Jessie.”