Beneath the Ashes

by Sue Henry

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  SUE HENRY

  It was a reliable Winchester Model 70 Pre 64 that he had used for hunting many years before—a bolt-action rifle, now probably worth more than he had originally paid for it. When she had grown old enough, he had taught Jessie to shoot it. Because of its size, it was un-handy for taking along on races, however, and she did not hunt, so she had kept it around only for sentimental reasons—recognizing it as her father’s validation of her abilities. A handgun fit in better with her racing gear and could be carried in a pocket, ready for quick use if she encountered contentious moose on the trail.

  Going down the steps, she found that the water used to extinguish the fire had found its way into the cellar, turning the floor into mud and grime. The space

  smelled wet and unpleasantly of smoke and soot. Her boxes of records were soaked and filthy, but the flour had remained undamaged inside its plastic container, though one side of that had been slightly distorted by the heat. Several empty glass jars she used for canning had fallen and broken when the box that held them dis-integrated in the flood. Jessie stepped carefully over them and lifted the Winchester from its place on the shelf, revealing a clean space where it had rested.

  In the half light of the open door, she unwrapped the waterproof cover and examined it. No water had found its way inside. The rifle, cleaned and well oiled before she had put it away, was in excellent condition. When Alex Jensen had moved into the cabin with her, his shotgun had replaced the rifle on the wall of the living room, and Jessie had moved the rifle to safety in the cellar. Now she was glad, for it would not have otherwise survived the blaze.

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  From the shelf, she took a full box of ammunition, which promptly fell apart, scattering the twenty 30.06-caliber cartridges it contained into the mud at her feet.

  But they’d be usable after she cleaned them, and it took only a minute or two to pick them up and find an unbroken jam jar to contain most of them. The last few she carried in one hand and, taking the rifle and the jar, went back up the steps. In a hurry, she stumbled on the top step and, striving for balance, dropped her handful of shells on the ground outside the door. Hurriedly gathering them up, she put them in the jar with the rest, and took them and the rifle to the tent.

  Returning, she closed the metal cellar door and

  spread dirt and partially burned timbers back over it, disguising the entrance. There was no reason to leave evidence of its existence and she might have a use for such a hidden space in the future, before her cabin was rebuilt.

  Rebuilt? Was she going to rebuild it? Jessie smiled to herself. Sometime in the last few days, almost without realizing it, she had come to the conclusion that she wanted to do exactly that. Fine. It was something to look forward to and be optimistic about. Deciding when and how this would be accomplished could wait till later.

  It took less than an hour to ready her team for the run back to the Little Peters Hills. Once again select-ing the large sled she had used on the trip with Anne, Jessie packed it as if she were starting the Yukon Quest.

  There were similarities. Only one sled was allowed for the length of that race—no replacements allowed.

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  She would have no way of making a replacement in this instance either, so she carefully checked the sled over to be sure it would hold up. There was always the possibility of an accident, however, so she packed materials she might need for repairs and the tool kit she would use if she had to make them.

  Plenty of dog food went in, and the cooker she used to melt snow for water, and for thawing and heating dog dinners. The food she packed for herself was the same high-energy edibles she had grown used to carrying on a racing trail. All of it had been previously prepared and kept frozen in the shed for training runs. A change of warm clothing, an extra parka and heavy mittens, several pairs of wool socks and boot liners, the sleeping bag she used during races, her first-aid kit for dogs and humans, an ax—all went into the sled bag. Last, she added the Winchester, once again wrapped securely against weather and within easy reach from the back of her sled. The brass cartridges, now cleaned of mud, went in with it, loose in a heavy plastic Ziploc bag.

  When everything was packed, Jessie wrote a note

  and left it locked in the shed for Billy. In it, she told him that she expected to be away for one night, possibly two, gave him instructions on what he should do at the kennel while she was gone, but didn’t reveal her intended destination. What he didn’t know, he couldn’t tell—even if he didn’t mean to.

  One or two at a time, she brought the best and most experienced of her dogs and harnessed them to the sled. The Darryls One and Two went into their wheel position nearest the brush bow. Ahead of them, two by two, were team dogs, Digger and Wart, Goofy and

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  Bliss, Sunny and Mitts, Lucky and Tux, Sadie and Pete. Twelve of the best dogs in the racing business, Jessie thought, as she inspected them carefully to be sure they were all healthy and without injury.

  Tank went into harness last, alone at the front of the team, undisputed leader, though Jessie was the real alpha of the pack, for she was the final authority. For a minute, she stood on the back of the sled runners watching them yelp and leap against their harnesses, eager to run as usual, keeping the rest of the kennel in an uproar at being left behind. Then she took her foot off the brake, pulled the snow hook, and allowed the sled to slide forward, gaining momentum as the team pulled it rapidly out of the yard.

  “Go, Tank. Get us out of here.”

  In seconds they had vanished down the trail into the trees and the rest of the dogs quieted, disappointed but resigned to staying at home.

  When they had disappeared from sight, Billy Steward stepped out of the trees—where, unseen, he had watched the preparations for this unexpected trip—and stood frowning after her. Contrite and ashamed of his disloyalty in disclosing the secret space in Jessie’s truck, he had worried about it and, determined to be there if she needed someone, had not gone home but had returned to wait and watch from the shelter of the forest.

  At first, he had thought she was only going for another training run. But, as he noticed what she was packing into the sled and saw her harness up only her best dogs, he began to suspect it was something else

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  entirely. Where was she going? Did this have anything to do with her absence of the day before?

  There was no way of finding out, but he did know one thing. It would be a cold day in hell before he told MacDonald—or anyone else—any of Jessie’s business again, even if they arrested him. For now, he would stay where he was and work in the yard. There was a lot to be done—dogs to care for, boxes to clean, straw to replace, equipment to repair. Whatever needed doing, he would do. Maybe, if he worked hard enough, she would forgive his betrayal—if she saw how really sorry he was. Resolute, he went to work.

  All afternoon and into the night, Jessie ran her team, west to the Susitna River, then north toward Mount McKinley and the Little Peters Hills. The temperature dropped as it grew dark, but the sky remained clear and it did not snow. There was no moon, only stars that shimmered coldly overhead, but what remained of the snow on the ground reflected just enough light to be able to see, and she knew where she was going. For the first part of the run through the dark, she used her headlamp only when absolutely necessary, not wanting to give away her presence to anyone in the houses and cabins she passed.

  As these grew fewer and farther between, then finally disappeared, she turned on the light and left it on.

  About nine o’clock, she stopped and built a fire to feed the dogs and herself. Stretching out in her sleeping bag on top of the sled, she rested for three or four hours, but did not sleep soundly, while the dogs, still in harness, curled into their usual nose-to-tail balls of fur

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  and
snoozed, having eaten well and emptied their aluminum pans of water.

  Looking up from where she lay, Jessie watched a

  wisp or two of northern lights drift across the sky in thin ribbons of pale whitish-green, diaphanous and slow moving. It was a sight she had seen many times, though this was late in the year and they were sometimes stronger and more colorful, but it made her feel at home and more self-confident. Somewhere in the dark on a nearby creek she could hear a trickle of water that had melted out during the day and would soon freeze again on top of the ice it overflowed. A breath of breeze rustled through a spruce and quickly died, allowing her to hear the monotonous purr of a far-away generator providing electricity for someone’s cabin.

  She felt calm and content with her decision, wasted no more time in mental examinations of the confusion of death and fire, guilt and innocence. If there was no one at the cabin, she would rest, then go home. If she found Anne, or anyone else, she would do what she needed to, or could. It seemed simple enough, so she refused to worry about it, though she knew it would probably turn out differently than she imagined. Since she couldn’t anticipate anything with accuracy, she allowed herself to expect nothing, and felt better about it than she had in days.

  She was almost asleep when she thought she heard a goose somewhere in the distance. Instantly awake, she listened carefully and identified the familiar sound a second time. It was too early for a goose to have arrived, but one was surely honking—and in the dark.

  Must be a very optimistic bird, she thought. There

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  wouldn’t be much for it to eat for quite a while yet. The sound did not repeat itself for a third time, and soon Jessie was as quiet as her dogs, rerunning old trails in her mind.

  As soon as the dogs were rested and she was ready to run, they swept steadily north, dark as shadows with one small light to guide them through the unbroken, snow-covered country, and the rest of the night passed like a dream of swift spirits over haunted ground.

  When the darkness at last began to fade and a pale, predawn gray filtered into the trackless wilderness, they were close under the western slopes of the Little Peters Hills. Jessie could see that the sky would be clear and that it promised another magnificent sunrise on Mount McKinley. It would have been worth stopping to watch, had she not had another, more important goal in mind.

  23

  Q

  “SHE’S GONE A

  , P

  GAIN

  HIL.”

  MacDonald strode into Becker’s office without

  knocking, banging the door against the wall, and stood looming over his desk with an anxious, frustrated frown. Behind him, Billy Steward had stopped in the doorway and stood glowering at MacDonald’s back, head up, chin at an inflexible angle, hair uncombed.

  “I found Billy still asleep at her kennel this morning, but he refuses to tell me anything—where she went, when she left, anything.”

  Billy’s lips tightened under Becker’s displeased glance, otherwise he did not move.

  Becker got up from the paperwork he was attempt-

  ing to catch up on and came around to confront the young man directly.

  “Where is she, Billy?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You’ve gotta know something. You’d better spill it.”

  Billy shook his head doggedly. “I don’t know.”

  Becker turned back to MacDonald.

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  “Too dammed stubborn. Was anything else missing?”

  “That sled that was on her truck and I don’t know how many dogs.”

  “She’s gone on a training run, then.”

  “If she has, why won’t he tell me?”

  Becker huffed angrily and walked back around to

  drop into the chair behind his desk.

  “Well, that tears it, then, doesn’t it? I didn’t ever expect Jessie to . . .”

  “That attitude’s as obstinate as Billy’s, Phil. You’re only seeing what’s hurt your feelings.”

  “You think so?”

  “Yes. I don’t think she had anything to do with

  Tatum—or, if she did, it wasn’t her idea.”

  “The lab says he was killed with her gun.”

  “Which disappeared when she did the first time.”

  “Says she did. Her fingerprints were all over it. That dog won’t hunt.”

  “And the truck?”

  “Wiped clean.”

  “Isn’t that a little too much?”

  Becker sat staring at him in discomfort, thinking hard.

  “Which dogs are gone?”

  “What?”

  “Which dogs did she take with her?”

  “How should I know?”

  “Billy?”

  No answer.

  “I can go out there and find out. Which ones?”

  “Find out for yourself.” Billy told him grimly.

  “Why should that make a difference?” MacDonald

  questioned. “A dog’s a dog.”

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  “No—it’s not. If she took some young dogs, she’s on a training run. Experienced dogs only would mean she’s probably gone somewhere else.”

  “You’re right. Do you know her dogs well enough to tell which are which? I don’t.”

  “Yeah—at least I know most of her racing team

  from the Quest. I can see if those are gone.”

  “Well—let’s go.” He swung around just in time to run into a clerk coming through the door. “Oof,

  sorry.”

  They stood for an instant nose to nose, until she stepped back and grinned wickedly, rubbing an arm.

  “Are you in my way?”

  MacDonald apologized again.

  “Hank Peterson’s here.”

  “For me or Phil?”

  “You—if you don’t run him down first.”

  “Aw, Carol . . . Where is he?”

  “Right here,” Hank said, stepping around her and Billy into the room. “He’s skipped out, Mac.”

  “Holman?”

  “Yeah. Slipped out sometime during the night. Manager says his car was gone when he got up at five.”

  “That motel manager never got up at five in his life.”

  “Somebody pounded on his door for a room.”

  “Well—that might do it. Any ideas?”

  “Not really, but Holman spent a couple of hours at Oscar’s last night. Talked to several people—including Oscar.”

  “You ask him about it?”

  “Nope. Thought I better leave that one alone.”

  “Good man.”

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  “What’s this, Mac?” Becker asked, once more on his feet. “You been having Hank keep an eye on Greg Holman?”

  “Thought it might help us locate his wife, since he’s spread it around that he’s looking for her, too. Hank offered.”

  “Any leads?”

  “Not yet. But, if he’s taken off, I’d be willing to bet that—”

  “He’s found out where she is?”

  “Could be.”

  Jessie was gone. Greg Holman was gone.

  “You don’t think they’re together?” Becker asked MacDonald, when they had searched Jessie’s dog yard, sheds, and tent for clues to her intended destination, and found nothing other than the fact that she was gone, along with a considerable amount of her racing gear.

  “I doubt it. She doesn’t trust him any more than she trusts Anne Holman. Billy says she seems to have given the dogs that are still here in the yard extra food and water, but it wouldn’t last more than today, so she must not intend to be gone longer than tomorrow at the latest. She left a note he would have found if she wasn’t here then.”

  Billy, seeing how concerned they were, had finally gone as far as telling MacDonald what he had con-cluded about the state of the kennel and
its dogs. Anything else, however, he still refused to divulge.

  “You really don’t know where she went, do you,

  Billy?” the investigator asked, walking the younger man away from the others, toward the ruin of Jessie’s house.

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  “No—I don’t.”

  “And we have discovered for ourselves that she’s definitely gone someplace. So you’re okay—haven’t broken any confidences.”

  Startled by the man’s perception, Billy looked at him and nodded, feeling a little better about the situation and of mending his relationship with Jessie, wherever she was.

  “Just give me one thing,” MacDonald requested.

  “Nodding or shaking your head will do. Did she leave on her own? I need to know that no one forced her away from here again.”

  Billy thought seriously for a moment, then nodded.

  What could that much hurt?

  “Okay. Thanks.”

  Never content to leave the scene of a fire uninvestigated, as they talked, MacDonald had been kicking at pieces of blackened timbers, turning them over. Now, he suddenly stopped and bent to examine a part of the rubble that he could see had been disturbed. Lying near it, half buried in a boot print that had pressed it into the dirt, lay a 30.06 rifle shell. For all her care, Jessie had not counted those she had dropped and cleaned, or she would have noticed one was missing.

  MacDonald now scraped away some dirt and

  charred remains with his foot to expose the edge of what appeared to be a metal door.

  “Billy?”

  But Billy Steward was walking quickly away from

  him toward the storage shed and ignored his question—clearly determined not to tell anything more—if he knew.

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  Clearing away rubble and lifting the door, the investigator found the short flight of steps that led down into the dark beneath what had been the cabin and soon identified a clean spot on one of the grimy shelves that matched the configuration of a rifle case.

  “So, we can guess she was armed,” Becker said.

  “Where the hell has she gone?”

  MacDonald had been turning the brass shell over in his fingers while he considered. Now he slipped it into a pocket of his jacket and took his best guess.